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REAL LIFE SKETCHES 

from 

DEVON AND CORNWALL 


HISTORICAL AND 
PERSONAL REMINISCENCES 


y 

By FRANK L. VOSPER 



CINCINNATI; JENNINGS AND PYE 
NEW YORK; EATON AND MAINS 


' 







THE LiSRARY OF 
CON O HESS. 

Two Copies Received 

ftPR «3 1903 

_ Copyright Entry 

c z> 

CLASS XXc. No. 


S X y ^ 

COPY B. 


1 


COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY 
JENNINGS AND PYE. 


4 • • 4 

m • 


« « 


« -• 


To (Earnishinmt, 

**ONE AND ALL,” 

And Our Neighbors from Across the Tamar, this 
Book is Respectfully and Affectionately 
Dedicated by the Author. 


CONTENTS. 

SKETCH I. PAGE 

St. Germans, and How the Methodists got a 
Chafed Site, 17 

SKETCH II. 

The “Fighting Cocks,” and How Botusfdeming 
Peopde Got their Chafed, 36 

SKETCH HI. 

Mr. Vyvyan’s Adventure, 45 

SKETCH IV. 

The Last of the Pad^odogi, 51 

SKETCH V. 

A Strange Burying Pdace, 60 

SKETCH VI. 

How Bidd Penruddery Steered Straight for 

THE Light, 65 

SKETCH VII. 

Dick Trefhunny and the Parson’s Tithe, ... 73 

5 


6 


CONTENTS, 


SKETCH VIII. PAOE 

Captain Pentopsei.i.’s Courtship and its Rather 
Disastrous Ending 90 

SKETCH IX. 

Captain Peneee’s Patrimony, 100 

SKETCH X. 

John Penseppeeker, “The Last Man in the 

Parish,” 108 

SKETCH XI. 

Jim Pengobberm’s Pasty; or. The Strike at 
Wheae Maria, 118 

SKETCH XII. 

The Quack Doctor, 130 

SKETCH XHI. 

The Press Gang, 141 

SKETCH XIV. 

The Recruiting Sergeant, 153 

' SKETCPI XV. 

A Hero of Peymouth Sound, 160 

SKETCH XVI. 

A Hero of H. M. S. “Magpie,” 173 


CONTENTS. 


7 


SKETCH XVIL page 

A Hero of the Caradons, 182 

SKETCH XVHI. 

Brother Retaeuc and the][Burgear, 187 

SKETCH XIX. 

Brother Retaeeic and the “Highwayman,” . . 193 

SKETCH XX. 

Brother Trerakem as a Dectective, 204 

SKETCH XXI. 

How Brother Tom Penaqua Went to Heaven, . 212 

SKETCH XXH. 

The Reclaimed Infidee, 218 

SKETCH XXHI. 

The Skeptic’s Conversion, 225 

SKETCH XXIV. 

Some Notabee Oed Warships, 232 

SKETCH XXV. 

A Quaint Oed Spot, with Romantic Associa- 
tions, 244 

SKETCH XXVI. 

That Forty Pounds, 269 


8 


CONTENTS. 


SKETCH XXVII. PAGE 

Fording the Tamar 

SKETCH XXVIII. 

“Unstable as Water,” 288 

SKETCH XXIX. 

Symphytum Asperrimum in three Chapters, . . 297 

SKETCH XXX. 

The Barren Fig-tree,” 306 

SKETCH XXXI. 

Biddy Bray, 313 

SKETCH XXXII. 

“Jan” James and “Joanner,” 321 


PREFACE. 


For many years, during brief and uncertain in- 
tervals of leisure, I have employed my time in con- 
tributing articles to papers and periodicals in Eng- 
land and Canada. Those articles, which for the 
most part have been illustrative of life and character 
in the two western counties, have been so well re- 
ceived that I have been induced to select those of 
most general interest and publish them in a volume. 

This I have done, enlarging, correcting, and re- 
vising as I have gone along. I now wish to draw 
my readers' attention to the following particulars, 
viz.: Those sketches are genuine and authentic. 
What is recorded actually occurred to the persons, 
at the places and as near as can be ascertained at the 
time stated. I have drawn on my imagination for 
a few unimportant details, which, however, will be 
found true to the mark. 

Every place is designated by its proper name, 
and with one or two exceptions — ‘‘The Recruiting 


9 


lO 


PREFACE. 


Sergeant,” for instance — the scenes lie within a ra- 
dius of about a dozen miles. Wherever I have had 
occasion to invent a name, I have invariably put the 
prefix “Tre,” ^Tol,” “Pen,” or “Fitz.” But as some 
of the real names have some of those prefixes, I ap' 
pend a list of my fictitious names, so that the reader 
will be able easily to distinguish them. 

With regard to the sketches that contain histor- 
ical matter, I have taken pains by consulting the 
most recent and most reliable authors to be as accu- 
rate as it is possible to be. 

Written at various times at brief intervals in a 
rush of other business, written in various moods and 
under various circumstances, I trust my “Real Life 
Sketches” will prove interesting, and in some degree 
instructive to my readers. 

FRANK L. VOSPER, 

South Vancouver, B. C. 


FICTITIOUS NAMES. 

The persons named below are real, their names 
only being fictitious : 

Tre. 

Trerepsor, Brother. 

Trewindlass, Captain John. 

Trephnnny, Dick. 

Trebinnacle, Mr. 

Trebullion, Miss. 

Trelodgem, Mr. 

Treberrium, Zachariah. 

Trelily, Priscilla. 

Trevellum, Mr. 

Trenagger, Dick. 

Treesy, Cap^n. 

Tredigger. 

Treleadin, Captain. 

Treliar, Mr. 

Trehomily, Mr. 

Trerakem, Brother. 


II 


12 


FICTITIOUS NAMES, 


Trephuddel, Ephraim. 

Trehung, Mr. 

Treoptimiis, Mr. 

Tre guzzle, Mr. 

Trephulem, Rabshakeh. 
Treswillington, Mr. 

Poi.. 

Polsmarty, Alexander. 
Polrushem, Cap'n. 

Poldrasher, Sampson. 

Polgrah, Achan. 

Polrousem, Brother. 

Polketchon, Solomon. 

Polduffer, John. 

Poltappin. 

Poldriver, ^^Varmerl^ 

Polwakent, Mr. 

Polchawbakin, Mr. 

Polstuffem, Mr. 

Prn. 

Penruddery, Bill. 

Pensolid, Mr. James, and others. 
Pensmellarat, Mr. Gehazi. 


FICTITIOUS NAMES, 


13 


Pentopsell, Captain. 

Penchimsy, Mrs. 

Penlee, Captain, and others. 
Penscourin, Mrs. Jane. 

Penphrugal, Miss. 

Penseppelker, John. 

Pencrozier, Mrs. 

Pengobblem, Jim. 

Pensopht, Mrs., and Master Honorius. 
Penvalleras, John. 

PenriifUt, Robert. 

Penaqna, Brother Tom. 

Penriter, Brother James. 

Pencltibbin, Sergeant. 

Penriskall, Simon. 

Pentrowel, Mr. 

Pencritic, Mr. 

Pengore, Harry. 

Penshaky, Issachar. 

Penharrow, Mr. 

Pensturdy, John. 

Penserious, Mrs. 

Penkaskead, Mr. 

Pengakem, Mr. Solomon. 


fICTITIOUS NAMES. 


Fitz. 

Fitzputoponnem, Rev. Boanerges. 
Fitzbriefj Mr. 

Fitzdosem, Dr. 

Fitzkillem, Lieutenant. 

Fitzellis, Rev. Mr. 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES FROM 
DEVON AND CORNWALL. 


SKETCH I. 


St. Germans, and How the Methodists Got a 
Chapel Site. 

PART I. 

‘The man is thought a knave or fool, or bigot plotting 
crime, 

Who for the advancement of his kind, is wiser than his 
time. 

For him the hemlock shall distill ; for him the ax be bared ; 

For him the gibbet shall be built ; for him the stake pre- 
pared. 

Him shall the scorn and wrath of man pursue with deadly 
aim. 

And malice, envj’’, spite, and lies shall desecrate his name. 

But truth shall triumph at the last, for round and round we 
run, 

And ever the right comes uppermost, and ever is justice 
done.” 

— Mackay. 

On how many occasions, when crossing the 

heights above the old town of St. Germans, when 

on my way to a distant Sunday morning appoint- 
ment, have I turned in my saddle and looked down 

17 


2 


i8 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


on the peaceful valleys away below me, and what a 
blending there has been of the past and present sug- 
gested by the prospect ! Just below, and where the 
Polbathic and Polsco Creeks and the Tidi River join 
their waters with the Lynher, stands the old town 
with its ancient church ornamented with two towers, 
indicating that it was formerly a cathedral. The 
splendid mansion of Port Eliot, formerly St. Ger- 
mans x\bbey, is now the residence of the Earl of 
St. Germans. The long straggling street, with its 
quaint old row of almshouses at one end, the re- 
mains of the old monastery * at the other, the whole 
tastefully laid out with flower gardens, shrubberies, 
and orchards, with here and there clumps of splen- 
did elms, oaks, and beeches, present a picture of 
rural beauty not easily forgotten. 

The surrounding scenery partakes of the same 
character. Following the Lynher in its windings to 
where it joins the Tamar just below Saltash, we 
have on the right the wooded cliffs of Whacker, 
with the grassy slopes of Fort Scraesdon, overlooked 
by the frowning ramparts of Fort Tregantle, which 
form part of a chain of forts extending for twenty 

’"Very little is left of the old monastery now, which for some 
centuries was used as a farmhouse with the curious name of 
“ Caddenbeake.” 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


19 

miles around the ports of Plymouth and Dcvonport, 
the beautiful grounds of Antony House, the resi- 
dence of General Pole Carew; while the spire of 
Merrifield church points skyward through the trees 
in the distance. On the left stretch the richly culti- 
vated fields and fruit gardens of Landrake St. Erney 
and St. Stephens. Here, too, we obtain a glimpse 
of Ince Castle guarding the lowlands ; while crown- 
ing the summit of a steep, almost precipitous hill 
stand the ivy-crowned walls and crumbling battle- 
ments of Trematon Castle. Farther east we see the 
harbor, dockyards, and arsenal of Devonport; the 
blue expanse of Plymouth Sound and the wood- 
crowned heights of Mount Edgcumbe. 

The sounds that reach us on this peaceful Sab- 
bath morn are peculiarly English — the bells from 
the churches far and near calling the people to the 
house of God; the faint notes of the bugle in some 
distant fort summoning the soldiers to church pa- 
rade; while the more distant boom of a gun an- 
nounces the arrival in Plymouth Sound of one of 
Her Majesty ^s warships returning from a foreign 
station. 

But mingled with those joyous, peaceful melodies 
there come down to us through the bygone centuries 


20 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


sounds of sterner import — mutterings of indignation 
and threats of vengeance as news spreads from town 
to town and village to village of good men being 
fined, branded, mutilated, and driven from the coun- 
try for conscience’ sake, the news that the little 
vessel that was seen rounding the Rame head had 
landed her precious freight of godly, devoted men 
and women on a wild, inhospitable shore a thousand 
leagues to the west; and the stern question evoked, 
'‘Why did they go?” There are sounds still more 
portentous; for the Pyms, the Hollises, the Hamp- 
dens, and the Eliots are standing in the nation’s Par- 
liament, and boldly calling into question the divine 
right of kings to rule despotically. Then there comes 
the tramp of armies among those Cornish hills. 

“The rattling musketry, the clashing blade. 

And ever and anon in tones of thunder 
The diapason of the cannonade.” 

For this peaceful, bustling, thriving district was once 
the scene of considerable military operations. That 
low-lying peninsula between those two creeks under 
Erthe Barton was held by a body of Parliamentary 
troops while Prince Maurice was besieging Ply- 
mouth from September to December, 1643; when, 
the siege being raised, they were released. And ten 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


21 


months later a straggling fleet of vessels passed 
along Whitsand Bay bearing the remains of the 
Earl of Essex’s army from Fowey to Plymouth after 
their defeat on Braddock down. 

Whether the church at St. Germans was actually 
founded by Germanus, Bishop of Auxerre, who 
flourished about the middle of the sixth century, or 
was named after him by those who founded the 
priory in the tenth century, is uncertain; but the 
building as it stands now was built about A. D. 
1261. For some centuries it enjoyed the distinction 
of being the seat of the Cornish bishopric, until 
Cornwall became incorporated with the See of Ex- 
eter, in which connection it remained until 1874, 
when Cornwall was again formed into a separate 
diocese, with its center at Truro. 

Those old-time Churchmen evidently knew a 
good thing when they saw it, and showed their 
sagacity by building their monastic institution in 
this fertile and romantic spot. 

When Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries in 
1539 there appears to have been a very considerable 
scramble for the church property, and St. Germans 
was conferred on an enterprising, obsequious Uriah 
Keep sort of a young man named John Champer- 


22 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


nowne, who afterward traded it off to John Eliot, 
whose grandnephew, Sir John Eliot, took such a 
prominent part in the struggle against the unconsti- 
tutional measures of Charles I, that I am bound to 
devote a little space to an account of him. 

Born in 1592, he was just twenty-eight years of 
age when the Mayiiower sailed out of Plymouth 
Sound and headed westward. Either from the 
“Hoe” or the Rame Head he may have seen her sail 
away to unknown regions beyond the Atlantic and 
returned to Port Eliot to meditate upon his future 
course. Soon after this event we find him taking his 
place in the House of Commons, and valiantly cham- 
pioning the cause of civil and religious liberty, and 
in March, 1628, he left St. Germans on his last jour- 
ney to London to take his seat in Charles Stuart’s 
third Parliament. 

There is another name associated with Sir John 
Eliot, which deserves at least a passing notice. 
About nine miles east of St. Germans, and about a 
couple hundred yards back from the old Callington 
and Saltash Turnpike, stands Crocadon House, 
where John de Trevisa, friend and contemporary 
of John Wyclif, labored at his translation of the 
Holy Scriptures. 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


23 


At the time of our story, however, John de Tre- 
visa had gone to his rest, and two centuries of slow 
but sure progress had rolled on since his work had 
been taken up by other hands, and we find those 
old walls tenanted by a worthy champion of civil 
and religious liberty in the person of Sir William 
Coryton, whose namesake still owns the estate. Sir 
William Coryton, like his friend. Sir John Eliot, 
was destined to suffer imprisonment for his oppo- 
sition to King Charles. 

It would be an interesting study to follow those 
two men in their long and difficult journey to Lon- 
don, which in those days occupied as much time as 
it takes now to travel from New York to San Fran- 
cisco ; and to listen to their earnest, anxious conver- 
sation and see them bracing themselves for the im- 
pending struggle. However, we find them in their 
places in the House of Commons, and we find Sir 
John Eliot supporting with the pious fervor of a 
seventeenth-century Puritan, combined with the im- 
petuous energy of a nineteenth-century advanced 
Liberal, the celebrated ‘‘Petition of Right,’^ in which 
the king was requested to bind himself not to levy 
taxes without the consent of Parliament, nor cause 
any subject to be arrested without legal process. 


24 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


Again we find Sir John taking a prominent part 
in that memorable scene which is so tersely and 
graphically depicted by Thomas Carlyle:* 

‘^The Parliament session proved very brief; but 
very energetic, very extraordinary. ^Tonnage and 
poundage,’ what we now call custom-house duties, 
a constant subject of quarrel between Charles and 
his Parliaments hitherto, had again been levied with- 
out Parliamentary consent, in the teeth of old Tal- 
lagio non concedendo, nay, even of the late solemnly 
confirmed Petition of Right, and naturally gave rise 
to Parliamentary consideration. Merchants had 
been imprisoned for refusing to pay it ; members of 
Parliament themselves had been ‘subpoenaed;’ there 
was a very raveled coil to deal with in regard to 
tonnage and poundage. Nay, the Petition of Right 
itself had been altered in the printing; a very ugly 
business too. . . . This Parliament in a fort- 

night more was dissolved; and that under circum- 
stances of the most unparalleled sort. For Speaker 
Finch was a Courtier, in constant communication 
with the king; one day while these high matters 
were astir. Speaker Finch refused to ‘put the ques- 
tion’ when ordered by the House. He said he had 

I«etters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell, introd. 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


25 


orders to the contrary ; persisted in that ; and at last 
took to weeping. What was the House to do? 
Adjourn for two days, and consider what to do! 
On the second day, which was Wednesday, Speaker 
Finch signified that by His Majesty's command they 
were again adjourned till Monday next. On Mon- 
day next. Speaker Finch, still recusant, would not 
put the former, nor indeed any question, having the 
king's order to adjourn again instantly. He refused ; 
was reprimanded, menaced ; once more took to weep- 
ing ; then started up to go his ways. But young Mr. 
Holies, Denzil Holies, the Earl of Clare’s second 
son, he and certain other honorable members were 
prepared for that movement: They seized Speaker 
Finch, set him down in his chair, and by main force 
held him there ! A scene of such agitation as was 
never seen in Parliament before. ‘The House was 
much troubled.' . . . For which surprising pro- 

cedure, vindicated by Necessity the mother of in- 
vention and supreme of lawgivers, certain honor- 
able gentlemen, Denzil Holies, Sir John Eliot, Wil- 
liam Strode, John Selden, and others less known to 
us, suffered fine, imprisonment, and much legal trib- 
ulation: nay. Sir John Eliot, refusing to submit, 
was kept in the tower until he died.” 


26 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


Three years before Sir John had incurred the 
royal displeasure by serving on the commission ap- 
pointed by Parliament for the impeachment of the 
Duke of Buckingham.* 

And now Charles’s opportunity had come. For 
three long years Sir John’s tenantry at St. Germans, 
and his family at Port Eliot watched and waited 
and petitioned in vain. His health gradually de- 
clined, and when the news of his death reached St. 
Germans and his family craved possession of his 
body, the request met with a stern refusal. The king 
would not even allow his body a burial among the 
dear old Cornish hills. Sir John Eliot has been 
accused by Clarendon and others of trying to invest 
the Parliament with more power than would be for 
the good of the nation. In reality he strove, and 
strove successfully, to save it from degenerating into 
a mere debating society. 

What he aimed at has been accomplished by the 
Revolution of 1688, the Reform of 1832, and the 
Redistribution Act of 1884; viz., government of the 
people, for the people, by the people. Sir John 
Eliot died in 1632, and that same year two other men 
widely different from each other in personal char- 


Howith, Hist, of England. 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


27 


acteristics passed away — George Frederick, Elector 
Palatine, brother-in-law to King Charles I, and 
grandfather of George I, whose acceptance of the 
crown of Bohemia in 1618 had precipitated what is 
known as the Thirty Years' War. The other was 
Gustavus Adolphus, of Sweden, who fell on the field 
of Lutzen while striving to save Germany from the 
thralldom of the Pope of Rome and the Emperor 
of Austria, whose success in Germany would hare 
endangered the liberties of Sweden. 

And are those men at this time unconscious of 
the success which has been achieved by their heroic, 
self-sacrificing labors? It is a chilling reflection to 
regard as true what the French revolutionists wrote 
over the gates of their cemeteries, ‘‘Death is an end- 
less sleep." Commend to me rather the sentiment 
expressed by Lord Tennyson in almost the last poem 
he wrote before his death: 

“ What is it all if we all of us each in being our own corpse 
coffins at last ? 

Buried in vastness, lost in silence! Drowned in the depths 
of a meaningless past ! 

What? but the murmur of gnats in the gloom, a moment’s 
anger of bees in the hive I 

Peace ! Let it be, for I loved him and loved him forever, 

The dead are not dead, but alive^^ 


28 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


PART II. 

“ Princes and Lords are but the breath of kings, 

‘An honest man ’s the noblest work of God.’ ” 

— Burns, 

Dicsclnding the hill from above Penamble, and 
entering the village street, we find on the right hand 
side the Wesleyan Chapel, a substantial stone-built 
structure surrounded by a strong iron fence, and 
capable of seating about two hundred people. It 
would be a ‘^city church’’ in British Columbia, with 
a resident minister, a mortgage, and a “floating 
debt;” but in dear democratic old Cornwall we dis- 
pense with those luxuries and refinements as much 
as possible, and so St. Germans forms part of the 
Callington Circuit, with its twenty-four chapels, two 
ordained ministers, and fifty local preachers. It was 
always a pleasure on getting the quarterly circuit 
plan to see my name down for St. Germans, and 
though separated now by many years of time and 
many thousand miles of space, I can feel the hearty 
hand^ake at the door, look down and recognize the 
dear, familiar faces before me — many of them now 
passed away, and most vividly recall the peculiarly 
pleasant nervous sensation that came over me when 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


29 

I rose to address them. , Those memories constitute 
what Miss Frances Ridley Havergal calls ''our hid- 
den leaves:” 

“Leaves where memory’s golden finger, 

Slowly pointing loves to linger ; 

Leaves that bid the old tears start.” 

They were warm-hearted, intelligent, earnest 
Christians who used to worship in this village chapel, 
not one particle of "shoddy” in their constitutions ; 
but every one in full sympathy with the young 
preacher who has ridden or walked a dozen miles 
that morning for the unspeakable pleasure of preach- 
ing the gospel to them. 

The chapel itself has a rather remarkable his- 
tory ; but in relating the plain facts as well as I can 
recall them from information obtained on the spot, 
I must apologize for correcting one or two slight 
errors into which the Rev. Mark Guy Pearse has 
unconsciously fallen in his story of "The Chapel at 
St. Piran.” It was early in the nineteenth century 
that the Methodists obtained a footing in the village, 
and a society was formed which was attached to the 
Plymouth Dock, now Devonport Circuit, and after- 
ward transferred to the Liskeard Circuit, which then 
extended from the Tamar to beyond Brown Willy 


30 


RBAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


and Roughtor. There was a congregation and a 
society, but no chapel and no land available on which 
to build one. The village belonged to the Earl of 
St. Germans, a descendant of Sir John Eliot, who 
being a member of the Church of England and some- 
what jealous of innovations of any kind, regarded 
this new movement with suspicion, and refused to 
give or lease any land for the purpose. 

Among the leaders of the Methodist Society in 
St. Germans at that time was Mr. Thomas Geake, 
the prototype of Mark Guy Pearse's Jan Pobman, 
but, except in the intensity of his earnestness, a very 
different type of a man. His portrait, an oil paint- 
ing which I have looked on many times in the resi- 
dence of his granddaughter, the St. Germans post- 
mistress, conveys the impression that he was a man 
of intelligence and refinement, instead of the rather 
humdrum Jan Pobman of Mr. Pearse’s book. He 
was also possessed of considerable property. A 
farmer, cattle dealer, and butcher, among his cus- 
tomers was the Earl of St. Germans, and at Christ- 
mas time especially there was always a heavy order 
for meat awaiting Mr. Geake at Port Eliot House. 
It was some time in the early twenties that Mr. 
Geake went as usual to get his Christmas order, 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


31 


when he was met by the butler and housekeeper 
with a request for a ‘"tip,” accompanied by a hint 
that unless a substantial perquisite was forthcoming 
the order would be sent elsewhere. For once, how- 
ever, they had met the wrong man. Mr. Geake in- 
dignantly refused to resort to bribery in order to 
retain their custom, declaring that he would com- 
pete with his fellow tradesmen fairly and honestly. 

Stung by the straightforward and manly way in 
which he rebuked them, these two worthies deter- 
mined to ruin him, and proceeded to concoct a plan 
which they flattered themselves would accomplish 
it. A blacksmith was taken into their confidence, 
and one night the weights used in testing the stores 
delivered at Port Eliot were conveyed to him, and 
into each weight was inserted a piece of lead. Their 
next move was to convey a hint to the Earl that Mr. 
Geake was not as straight in his dealings as he might 
be, and that it would pay to look after him. The 
meat was then ordered, duly delivered, and weighed. 
Fancy Mr. Geake's surprise and dismay when piece 
after piece fell short by some pounds of the required 
weight. Butler and houskeeper feigning the most 
righteous indignation at what they witnessed, called 
the earl's attention to the matter, and in his presence 


32 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


the farce of weighing the meat was gone through 
again, Mr. Geake meanwhile protesting his inno- 
cence and offering to test it with his own scales and 
weights. His lordship, however, was fully con- 
vinced of his dishonesty; peremptorily ordered him 
to take the meat away, and dismissed him with a 
severe reprimand. 

For the next few months society in St. Germans 
was much exercised in its inmost soul, and loud and 
long were the expressions of indignation at Mr. 
Geake’s perfidy. There were a few of his intimate 
friends who still believed in his innocence; but the 
same jury whom Bunyan represents as trying Faith- 
ful at Vanity Fair sat every night at the ^‘Eliot 
Arms” and regularly tried and condemned the 
“Methodist scoundrel.” Much ale was drunk and 
much tobacco was consumed over the matter, and 
the verdict of this learned body of good men and 
true amounted to this, that a man might lie, cheat, 
and steal to his heart’s content, and yet be a thor- 
oughly consistent unbeliever; but that lying, cheat- 
ing, and stealing were contrary to the teaching of 
Christianity in general, and of Methodism in par- 
tic'jlar. Therefore, all Christians, and especially 
M^ithodists, should be avoided as much as possible. 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


33 

Satisfied with this sage and logical reasoning, they 
cheated, lied, drunk, and swore more than ever. 

What Mr. Geake sufifered during those months 
can only be understood by those who have passed 
through a similar experience. To a man of his sen- 
sitive nature there was something peculiarly excru- 
ciating in being treated with suspicion by those who 
previously reposed every confidence in him ; in being 
shunned by those among whom he had moved freely 
in his business and social relations; in hearing ru- 
mors from far and near that he was a rogue and a 
hypocrite. 

How he was sustained at this time can only be 
understood by those who ^‘know that all things work 
together for good to them that love God.’^ He ap- 
pears to have held on to this truth through all this 
bitter experience, and his faith did not go unre- 
warded. It was some time in the following winter 
that Mr. Geake received an urgent message. A 
young woman who had been a servant at Port Eliot 
was dangerously ill, and declared that she had some- 
thing on her mind that she was bound to communi- 
cate to the Earl of St. Germans and Mr. Geake be- 
fore she died. The earl was fortunately at Port 
Eliot at the time, and in company with Mr. Geake 
3 


34 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


hastened to the poor girl’s bedside. She then di- 
vulged the whole plot, and implored forgiveness for 
the part she had taken in it. Comforting the poor 
dying woman as well as they could, the two gentle- 
men then proceeded to Port Eliot, and by the earl’s 
orders all the conspirators, including the blacksmith, 
were assembled in the hall, and a constable was soon 
also in attendance. On being taxed with their crime, 
they found no other course open to them but to make 
a full confession, and then, in the most abject, grovel- 
ing manner begged pardon and so on. His lordship 
was about to give the whole crowd into custody 
when the noble spirit that was in Mr. Geake came 
to the rescue, and through his intercession they were 
saved from a term of penal servitude, which in those 
days meant a sea voyage at the expense of the gov- 
ernment. However, they were all ordered to pack 
up and quit the neighborhood immediately. Having 
performed this duty, the earl expressed his sorrow 
for the trouble and pecuniary loss Mr. Geake had 
sustained, and begged him to say what amount of 
compensation he considered he was entitled to. This 
was a question not easily answered, and Mr. Geake 
begged time to consider it, which was readily 
granted. There was a lively meeting that evening 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


35 


in the cottage where the Methodists used to hold 
their services, and when Mr. Geake proposed that 
the earl should be asked for a plot of ground to 
build a chapel on, the proposal met such a response 
as could only come from an old-time Methodist con- 
gregation. 

The rest of the story is soon told. The request 
was made and granted. The chapel was built, and 
remaineth unto this day. 


SKETCH II. 


The) ‘‘Fighting Cocks/^ and How Botusttdming 
PeiopIvE) Got the)ir Chape:l. 

The) valley of Botusfleming, locally pronounced 
“Bo-flemy,” is one of the loveliest bits of scenery 
in the west of England. Whether you look down 
from the Saltash Turnpike, or look up from the 
Tamar in the months of April and May, the whole 
valley presents the appearance of a vast flower gar- 
den, some hundreds of acres in extent. Snug farm- 
houses nestle among rich orchards, interspersed 
with steep slopes planted with strawberries. The 
old mansion of Moditonham, of which I shall have 
to write something later on, the Anglican Church 
and the Wesleyan Chapel, always a feature in Corn- 
ish scenery, lie buried, or nearly so, in cherry-trees 
nearly a century old. For people, cottages, churches, 
and fruit-trees cling to life most tenaciously in this 
valley, as if they were unable or unwilling to quit it, 
thereby displaying most excellent taste. Memories 
36 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


37 

cling there, too — memories of men with whom I 
was associated nearly thirty years ago, when, as a 
young local preacher, I was brought into contact 
with men who could distinctly remember events that 
occurred when the nineteenth century was in its 
early youth. On the Saltash Road, and near the 
crossroad leading to Nottar Bridge, there stood in 
the early part of the century a small wayside inn 
known as ^‘The Fighting Cocks.^’ Those old way- 
side inns look very picturesque in paintings of rural 
scenery, and “mine host” is invariably represented 
in novels as a jolly, open-hearted old fellow, and the 
company assembled in the bar as being a jovial set 
of roystering, good-tempered fellows, fond of good 
ale, and fun, and ready for anything that had in it 
the element of life and conviviality. There was, 
however, a dark side to this picture. Those jolly, 
laughing, merry-hearted fellows would often retire 
sometime after midnight to their picturesque cot- 
tages, and convert them into a veritable pandemo- 
nium : heaping all manner of insult and abuse, often 
accompanied with personal violence, on those whom 
it was their duty to protect and cherish. That pleas- 
ant-faced landlord was often a low, brutal villain; 
and offenses against persons and property, of the 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


38 

most vile and atrocious character, were often con- 
trived, and sometimes put into execution, within the 
walls of that innocent-looking public house. ‘‘The 
Fighting Cocks’’ was a place of that character, and 
the landlord, a man known as “Old B.,” was known 
to be a violent, unscrupulous old scoundrel, and both 
he and his house became associated in the popular 
mind with a mysterious affair that occurred in the 
neighborhood in the early days of the nineteenth 
century. The facts, as near as I have been able to 
collect them, were as follows: A single woman, 
whose home was in Stokeclimsland, had been living 
in Plymouth, engaged as a domestic servant. She 
had saved some money; and one afternoon in the 
fall of 18 — she took a small bundle and set out to 
visit her friends in S. There being no regular 
conveyance at that time between the two places, she 
announced her intention of walking, making the 
journey of about eighteen miles in two easy stages. 

On arriving at Saltash passage, she crossed the 
Tamar in a waterman’s boat, and the boatman after- 
ward deposed that he saw her walking up Fore 
Street Hill; and another person spoke to her just 
as she was leaving the town. That was the last ever 
seen of her. After weeks and months of fruitless 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


39 


inquiry the affair gradually melted away into the 
region of inscrutable mysteries. It might have been 
twenty years after her disappearance that interest 
in the case was revived by two circumstances, which 
were generally supposed at the time to have some 
connection with each other. The road between Sal- 
tash and Callington underwent considerable alter- 
ations throughout its whole length; and on widen- 
ing it some two or three hundred yards north of the 
“Fighting Cocks,’^ the workmen came upon a skel- 
eton lying under a few feet of earth just inside 
the hedge. 

About the same time, in a neighboring village, 
old B. was seized with what proved to be fatal ill- 
ness. His deathbed has been said to have presented 
a horrible scene. He was delirious, and scenes in 
his past life were, or appeared to be, constantly 
coming before him, and one terrible vision was often 
presenting itself. Starting up in his bed, and point- 
ing to different parts of his room, he would shout : 
“There she is again; take her away! Take her 
away ! Make her go out I It was n’t me. I did n’t 
do it. I did not do it. God have mercy on me ! I 
did not kill her! She can not say I did.” And in 
this way, alternately crying for mercy and pro- 


40 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


testing his innocence, the wretched soul of old B. 
went out into the darkness. 

There is another circumstance connected with 
this spot, which is of such a startling character that, 
were it not for the fact that I was well acquainted 
with the person who related it — who was a man of 
undoubted veracity — I should certainly hesitate to 
relate it. As it is, however, in another sketch I will 
relate the bare facts as I heard them soon after they 
occurred, and have my readers to draw what con- 
clusions they please from them. I must now turn 
my attention to Botusfleming Chapel. The fact that 
the early Methodists met with strong and bitter 
opposition in their work is now a matter of well- 
known history. That they met with strong sym- 
pathy and support in unexpected quarters is not so 
generally well known.* The greater number of their 
opponents were people who had a bitter hatred to 
true religion in any shape or form whatever. There 
were, however, many conscientious people who in 
their mistaken zeal for God looked upon anything 

* I may mention here that one of my direct ancestors, while de- 
fending John Wesley from the violence of a mob in the town of 
Camel ford was struck by a stone aimed at the “ venerable founder of 
Methodism.” 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


savoring of novelty with jealous fear; and who re- 
garded all innovations with suspicion. 

In many places they found the ground prepared 
for them, and were heartily welcomed by the Angli- 
can clergymen. Among those there stands promi- 
nently Fletcher, of Madeley, whose holy, blameless 
life excited the admiration even of Voltaire, the in- 
fidel; Daniel Rowlands, of Llangethio, in South 
Wales, under whose preaching Howell Harris, 
country squire and militia captain, was brought to 
God, and who, in his turn, was the means of the 
conversion of Williams, of Llandilo, known as the 
‘‘Charles Wesley of Welsh Methodism.'' 

The rector of Laneast also welcomed the evan- 
gelists ; while the Rev. Mr. Thompson, of St. Glen- 
nys, was engaged in evangelistic work at the time 
of their coming to Cornwall, and was heartily glad 
of their co-operation. Among the landed gentry 
some were bitterly opposed to them; while others, 
from an inbred sense of justice and love of fair 
play, sided with the persecuted ones, and rendered 
them all the assistance in their power. A repre- 
sentative of each class figured conspicuously in the 
history of Botusfleming Chapel. 


42 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


The Methodist preachers traveling by the old 
road from Saltash to Callington, which at that time 
led through the village, might have applied to the 
valley the words of the hymn : 

“Where every prospect pleases, 

And only man is vile.” 

And it was for the purpose of elevating the moral 
and spiritual nature of the “man,” and to alleviate 
the sufferings of the woman and child, and to coun- 
teract, if possible, the baleful influence of the “Fight- 
ing Cocks'" and “Rising Sun" — the latter a crum- 
bling ruin when I last saw it — that those earnest, 
fearless men commenced their self-denying labors 
here, and soon established a “society class" and had 
in view the possible chapel in which to hold their 
services. Conspicuous among the local preachers of 
that time stands the name of Mr. Nicholas Healy. 
Holding the position of butler at Pentillie Castle, he 
attended the Methodist service held in the old farm- 
house at Dunstan, from which place the Rev. Mr. 
Webb graduated into the Wesleyan ministry. Squire 
C., of Pentillie, however, objected to his butler at- 
tending Methodist class-meetings, and ordered him 
to desist or throw up his situation. Mr. Healy chose 
the latter alternative, and removed to Saltash, where 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


43 


he commenced business as a maltster, and started a 
night-school for the benefit of the farmers’ sons in 
the neighborhood. This night-school soon developed 
itself into a regular boarding-school. I have often 
heard my father, who was one of Mr. Healy’s pupils, 
speak of him in the highest terms as a man, a school- 
master, and a preacher. 

On an old '‘plan,” dated 1828, in the possession 
of my old friend, the late Mr. Samuel Pote, I have 
seen the name of N. Healy, Jr., “on trial.” This 
gentleman subsequently joined the Church of Eng- 
land, and for many years previous to his death, 
which occurred about 1890, held the living of Ean- 
east, and proved a worthy successor of the clergy- 
man who had welcomed the Wesleys in the previous 
century. 

The question of the proposed chapel at Botus- 
fleming must have engrossed the attention of the 
“stewards” at many quarterly-meetings, when the 
way was opened for its erection in a most extraor- 
dinary and unexpected manner. Squire L., of Mod- 
itonham, was a member of the Church of England, 
but took a much broader view of things than his 
neighbor at Pentillie. He saw that there was room 
in that neighborhood for the energies of all the 


44 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


Christian workers who could find their way there, 
and, while unostentatiously sympathizing with the 
Methodists, kept his eye open for an opportunity of 
rendering them practical assistance. And this op- 
portunity came in the following manner: 

There was a meeting of some kind held at Lis- 
keard, at which were present many of the clergy 
and gentry of East Cornwall. Dinner being over, 
and the king and bishops having been duly “toasted,’’ 
a clergyman rose to his feet, and, raising his glass, 
exclaimed : “Gentlemen, I beg to propose, as a toast, 
'Down with dissent !’ ” 

“And I, gentlemen,” exclaimed Squire L., spring- 
ing to his feet; “propose as a counter-toast, 'Success 
to dissenters and as a proof of my sincerity I pledge 
myself to contribute one hundred pounds toward the 
erection of a Methodist chapel on my estate in Botus- 
fleming.” 

The toast was honored. So was the check for 
one hundred pounds, which the circuit stewards 
presented at the bank a few days afterward. And 
that was how Botusfleming people got their chapel. 


SKETCH III. 

Mr. Vyvyan's Adventure:. 

For over forty years previous to his death, 
which occurred a few years ago, few men in the 
ranks of the Methodist local preachers were better 
known or more highly respected in the *^Three 
Towns” and neighborhood than Mr. W. H. Vyvyan. 
He was a man of an ardent, impulsive, rather ex- 
citable temperament, in great request at mission- 
ary meetings, Sunday-school anniversaries, etc., 
where lively, stirring addresses were required. In 
his own circuit, Plymouth Ebenezer, which extended 
many miles north and east of Plymouth; in the 
Devonport Circuit, which extended north and west, 
and also in the Callington Circuit, which included 
Saltash and neighboring villages, Mr. Vyvyan’s 
name on the bill would always attract a crowd. So 
Brother Vyvyan may be considered a popular man ; 
and the adventure I am about to relate occurred 


45 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


46 

while returning from one of these journeys. My 
only regret in connection with it being that I failed, 
through my own carelessness, in getting the account 
of it from his own lips, which I had ample oppor- 
tunity of doing. I derive some consolation, how- 
ever, from the fact that I heard it from several most 
reliable persons, to whom he related it, and all the 
accounts I have heard tally in every particular. It 
appears that some time in the later fifties or early 
sixties Mr. Vyvyan received an invitation to preach 
at Callington, taking the morning and evening serv- 
ices, with an address to the Sunday-school in the 
afternoon. The distance from Plymouth to Calling- 
ton is about fourteen miles, which Mr. Vyvyan de- 
cided on taking on horseback. He had completed 
his arrangements, carefully prepared his sermons, 
and hired his horse for the journey, when he was 
startled one night with a very vivid dream. 

He dreamt that he was riding back from Calling- 
ton, when his horse suddenly shied and stopped, 
nearly throwing him over its head. He got into 
the saddle again, when the horse shied the second 
time, and he was thrown to the ground and killed. 

When he told his dream next morning, Mrs. 
Vyvyan tried to persuade him not to go to Calling- 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


47 


ton, taking the dream as a warning of impending ill. 
Mr. Vyvyan, however, was not superstitious — a 
fact on which I wish to lay especial stress, as it has 
considerable bearing on what follows — his mind be- 
ing fully occupied with his business and the prepara- 
tion for the services at Callington, if his dream oc- 
curred to him at all, he paid little attention to it. 
Sunday morning came, and Mr. Vyvyan started on 
his journey. Nothing of importance occurred on 
the way to Callington except that when he arrived 
there he found that his friends there had sent a 
horse to Saltash to meet him ; and he, having missed 
it, another messenger was sent to bring back the 
horse. This man reported that he had seen nothing 
unusual on the road. Mr. Vyvyan, having fulfilled 
his duties in his usual conscientious, faithful man- 
ner, mounted his horse and turned his face toward 
Plymouth. During the first four miles of his ride 
he was indulging in that delicious feeling of rest 
which comes after a day of hard pulpit work, which 
every preacher knows how to appreciate when 
thankfulness for having been able to say what you 
have said is mingled with a twinge of regret for not 
having said more, or said it differently. Suddenly 
he was roused from his reverie by his horse shying 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


48 

violently, nearly throwing him out of the saddle. 
To save himself from falling, he slipped his feet 
from the stirrups and sprang to the ground. In- 
stantly his dream came into his mind, with the 
thought. Might not this have been a warning after 
all? As I said, Mr. Vyvyan was not superstitious; 
but the coincidence was altogether too striking to 
be disregarded, so his mind was made up at once: 
he would walk the remainder of his journey, and lead 
his horse. This he proceded at once to do. So with 
his arm through his bridle rein and his eyes on the 
road, he walked briskly on. Down the two steep 
hills beyond Paynter’s Cross ; past the little thatched 
cottage beyond Duck’s Pool; he commenced the 
rather long ascent toward Hatt, again busy with 
his thoughts. A second time he was aroused from 
his meditations by his horse stopping suddenly and 
trembling violently. He looked up, and just in front 
of him was a human figure, presenting a most hor- 
rible appearance. I spare the reader the details of 
Mr. Vyvyan’s description, which plainly indicated 
death by violent means. For a while Mr. Vyvyan 
looked at the apparition in terror; then the figure, 
lifting its hands as if either in pity or supplication, 
slowly moved to the side of the road, and, with 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


49 


considerable difficulty, Mr. Vyvyan led his terror- 
stricken horse by it. Looking back, he saw it lean- 
ing against the fence. Then, unbuttoning his coat 
and vest, he found himself literally foaming with 
perspiration. Whether he walked or rode the re- 
mainder of his journey I do not remember; but he 
reached home, and for some weeks was laid up with 
a violent fever. Such is Mr. Vyvyan’s story. Now 
as to an explanation of this mysterious occurrence. 
Was the apparition the cause of the fever; or was 
the fever the cause of the apparition? But the 
question might be asked. Why should Mr. Vyvyan’s 
physical or mental condition affect his horse? To 
which I reply that a very trivial object may have 
scared the horse, while, at the same time, the fever in 
Mr. Vyvyan’s body may have conjured up the ap- 
parition. Still, without giving heed to the trickery 
and nonsense connected with spiritualistic ''seances,” 
"manifestations,” etc., or every idle tale about 
"spooks” and ghosts, haunted houses and the like — 
respecting which Dr. Thos. Dick* reasons that those 
who believe them forget that the spirits of the saved 
are better employed, and the spirits of the lost are 
better taken care of — ^we must admit that there is 

* Philosophy of a Future State. 

4 


50 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


much in the seen and unseen world that is beyond 
our ken ; in fact there is very little, after all, that 
we actually know, and that it is literally true that 
‘now we see in a mirror, darkly.” f I remember an 
old Congregational minister once relating a story of 
how an atrocious murder was revealed to no less 
a person than Rev. Philip Henry, father of the great 
commentator, by an apparition which presented it- 
self to him under very peculiar circumstances, and 
which the narrator had seen in an old volume of 
the Gentleman^ s Magazine. In the case of Philip 
Henry a definite object was attained; but in Mr. 
Vyvyan’s case the only end gained was a badly 
scared horse, and a Methodist preacher driven into 
a fever; and what was mysterious before remained 
as dark as ever. 

Howe/er, this is Mr. Vyvyan’s narrative, and 
my readers may draw what conclusions from it they 
please. 


1 1 Cor. xiii, 12, Revised Version. 


SKETCH IV. 

The Last oe the Pae^oeogi. 

The village of Landulph, like its near neighbor 
Botusfleming, is a secluded spot. Nestling among its 
orchards and fruit-gardens, and shaded by clumps 
of trees of many centuries’ growth, you are hardly 
aware of its existence until, descending one of the 
steep hills that rise on three sides of it, you suddenly 
find yourself in the village. There stands the old 
English church, with its graveyard filled with 
quaintly inscribed ancient headstones and tastefully 
executed modern ones. The former forcibly recall 
the words of Gray : 

“ Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid. 

The rude[[forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

Ear from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 

51 


52 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


Along the cool sequestered vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse, 
The place of fame and elegy supply ; 

And many a holy text around she strews. 

To teach the rustic moralist to die.” 

The place, however, is not without its historical 
associations; for it was at Moditonham House in 
the winter of 1688-89 that the mayor and aldermen 
of Plymouth and the officers commanding the troops 
in the town took the oath of allegiance to William 
and Mary, peacefully delivering up the keys of that 
stanch old Puritan fortress, which forty-five years 
before had stood a three-months siege, when the 
Royalists, under Prince Maurice, tried in vain to 
drive or starve the garrison into surrender. 

But in a more peculiar manner still is the place 
linked with the long-ago past, and with events which 
have shaken the religious and political world to its 
foundations; for here, amid the “rude forefathers 
of the hamlet,” and the “squires,” on whose lands 
they toiled, the last descendant of a great royal 
family was laid to rest when the seventeenth century 
was drawing to a close. I remember when the 
Wesleyan Chapel was opened here in the summer 
of 1874. The dedicatory sermon was preached by 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


53 


the late Rev. Luke H. Wiseman, who chose for his 
text Rev. iii, 4: “Thou hast a few names even in 
Sardis, which have not defiled their garments; and 
they shall walk with me in white, for they are 
worthy.’’ It would have lent some slight additional 
interest to the sermon had the preacher known that 
close by was reposing the dust of one whose ances- 
tors’ dominions extended over Western Asia Minor, 
including the city of Sardis. 

The “Eastern question” is of more ancient or- 
igin than we are apt to imagine it to be. Reduced 
to its simplest form it is this: Shall Asiatic des- 
potism control any part of Europe ? It may be said 
to have been inaugurated when, at the close of the 
sixth century B. C., Darius Hystaspis, the Arta- 
xerxes of the Book of Nehemiah, and his son Arta- 
xerxes Longimanus (Xerxes), the Ahasuerus of 
the Book of Esther, tried to subdue the Greeks, and 
saw their armies defeated at Marathon and Platsea, 
and their fleets destroyed at Mycale and Salamis. 

The succeeding centuries witnessed the rise and 
decline of the Macedonian, Roman, and Byzantine 
Empires; and then, about the middle of the thir- 
teenth century of the Christian era, the “Eastern 
question” assumed another phase : the Saracen 


54 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


power in Asia had given place to that of the Sel- 
juck Turks, which, in its turn, had been borne 
down and nearly extinguished by the hordes of Mon- 
gols under Zhenghis Khan, which had swept down 
upon Southern and Western Asia. It was at this 
time, according to Turkish tradition, that a body of 
Turkish warriors, led by one Er-Thogrul, or Erto- 
grul, emerging from some mountain fastnesses, found 
themselves on a plain — ^the plains of Angora — 
where a battle was raging. Throwing themselves 
on the weakest side, they soon turned the scale of 
victory. The battle over, they found that the enemy 
was a detachment of the army of Zhengis Khan, 
and that the army they had assisted was the army 
of the Seljuck Turks, commanded by the Sultan Ala- 
ud-Din. Years afterward Ertogrul’s son Othman 
succeeded to the sultanate of the Seljuck Turks, and 
became the founder of the Othman, or Ottoman, 
Empire. Othman dealt some heavy blows to the al- 
ready declining Byzantine power in Asia, and his 
son Orkhan took up the work where he had left it. 
It was Orkhan who started the system of selecting 
annually several thousands of the boys belonging 
to the conquered Christian families, and training 
them as soldiers in the Turkish army. These “Yeni- 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


55 


serai/' or “Janissaries,” afterward played an im- 
portant part in Turkish political and military history, 
and it is a singular and rather painful fact that it 
was a member of this corps, a Janissary named 
Hassan, who was the first on the walls of Constan- 
tinople when the city was captured by the Turks. 
It was Orkhan who led the first Turkish army into 
Europe, seized Gallipoli, and made it a permanent 
Turkish settlement. 

If Michael Palaeologus, after he had intrigued 
and fought his way to the throne of Constantinople 
after the battle of Pelagonia in 1260, had any doubts 
as to the magnitude of his task in restoring the an- 
cient glories of the Byzantine Empire, the effect of 
his wretched policy in regard to the frontier of his 
Asiatic possessions must soon have convinced him of 
his error. Had Michael acted differently at this 
period the history of Europe would probably have 
read differently.* But the opportunity was lost. 
And another opportunity was lost when the Sultan 
Bajazet, or Bayezid, was defeated and taken pris- 
oner by the armies of Timour on the same field of 
Angora, where nearly two centuries before his great 
ancestor Ertogrul had defeated the armies of Zhen- 


See Ency. Brit. ; also The Byzantine Emp., Oman. 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


56 

ghis Khan and laid the foundation of the Ottoman 
Empire. But Manuel Palaeologus did not consider 
himself able alone to cope with the Turks, even in 
their disorganized condition; and the German Em- 
peror Sigismund was too busy persecuting the fol- 
lowers of Huss and putting down the peasants’ in- 
surrection in Bohemia to come to his assistance ; and 
for the next thirty years (1421 to 1453) the Palae- 
ologi saw the Turks snatching province after prov- 
ince from their hands until on the fatal 29th of May, 
I453> after a vain attempt to defend his capital with 
a force of nine thousand soldiers against an army 
of seven thousand Turks led by Mohammed II, 
Constantine XIII fell under a heap of slain, and the 
rule of the Palseologi was at an end. 

The Byzantine Empire, dating from the founding 
of Byzantine B. C. 766, had lasted 2219 years, of 
which period the Palseologi had occupied the throne 
192 years. The British Empire, dating from the time 
of the accession of Alfred the Great, has stood just 
1031 years, of which period the descendants of the 
Electress Sophia of Hanover have reigned 188 years. 
The Palaeologian period was a period of steady de- 
cline. The Hanoverian period, notwithstanding 
temporary setbacks, has been a period of steady and 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


57 


substantial growth. Why? The answer is simple. 
The government of the one was despotic; the gov- 
ernment of the other has been constitutional. In 
the Eastern Empire there was nothing resembling 
even that embryo Parliament known as the Saxon 
Witenagemote. 

Political corruption and religious bigotry and in- 
tolerance had as much to do with the fall of the em- 
pire as the “unspeakable Turk.” 

After the fall of Constantinople the royal family 
became scattered, and we get very scant notices of 
them in subsequent history. Mosheim * informs us 
that one James Palseologus of Chios was burned 
at Rome for Socinianism, in 1585. Another of the 
family found his way to England and married a 
Miss Ball, of Hadley, in the county of Suffolk; 
after his marriage he came to Cornwall, and resided 
in the old Manor House, of Clifton, overlooking the 
Tamar.f 

He died here in the early part of the seventeenth 
century, and a small brass tablet in the eastern wall 
of the church bears this inscription : “Here lyeth y® 
bodye of Theodoro Palaeologus, of Pesaro, in Italye, 

*Kcc. Hist., cent. i6. 

t The old house was taken down about fifty years ago, the mate- 
rials being used in the construction of the present farmhouse. 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


58 

descended from y® imperyall lyne of y® last Chris- 
tian Emperors of Greece, being y® sonne of Prosper, 
y® sonne of Theodore, y® sonne of John, y® sonne 
of Thomas, second brother of Constantine Palaeolo- 
gus, y® eighth of y^ name, and last of y® lyne y^ 
reigned in Constantinople, till subdued by y® Turkes, 
who marry’d with Mary y® daughter of William 
Balls, of Hadley in Suffolke, Gent.; and had issue 
five children, Theodore, John, Ferdinando, Maria, 
and Dorothy. He departed y® lyfe at Clyfton y^ 21st 
of January, 1636.” Of the children who survived 
him we gather few particulars of any interest. His 
eldest son, Theodore, was a sailor, and died on board 
the Charles II in 1693. 

One daughter married a Landulph gentleman, 
and died in 1681 ; another was buried in Landulph 
in 1674. 

What is interesting in connection with it is this : 
In 1829 the Greeks, after a long struggle with 
their ancient enemies, the Turks, obtained their in- 
dependence. One of the fiercest fights of the war 
took place on the same field of Platsea where, 
twenty-three centuries before, Mardonius and his 
Persian army suffered such a crushing defeat at the 
hands of the Greeks. Their independence being rec- 


RBAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


59 


ognized by the European powers, the Greeks set to 
work to discover, if possible, some representative 
of one of their ancient dynasties to take up the reins 
of power at Athens, which had been dropped at Con- 
stantinople nearly four hundred years before. They 
traced the Palseologi to England, to Cornwall, to 
Eandulph; but there their quest ended. Theodore 
Palseologus and his family were gone, and to all 
intents and purposes the race was extinct. One cu- 
rious circumstance remains to be mentioned. About 
twenty years before the Greek envoys came to Lan- 
dulph in search of a king, the vault containing the 
body of Theodore Palseologus was accidentally 
opened. The coffin was found to be made entirely of 
oak, and the body was found to be in so perfect a 
state to show that he was in stature above the com- 
mon height. His head was described as of a long 
oval form, with an aquiline nose, and a long white 
beard. 

Thus in quiet retirement, instead of amid the 
turmoil of political and military strife, this ancient 
family passed out of the world’s history. 


SKETCH V. 

A Strange Burying Peace. 

Rising from the bank of the Tamar, first by the 
sloping “Cowslip” mead, and then by a more steep 
and wooded ascent for about four hundred and fifty 
or five hundred feet above the sea level, and situate 
scarcely half a mile northeast from Pentillie Castle, 
is Mount Ararat. Notwithstanding its close prox- 
imity to the busy civilized world the place has an air 
of intense loneliness, which, as a boy, I felt quite as 
much as in later years I have experienced in the 
depths of a British Columbia forest. 

The summit of Mount Ararat is crowned with a 
low ivy-covered tower, open at the top, with a small 
covered porch, where a granite mullioned loophole 
commands a view of the interior. Lofty trees sur- 
round the building on all sides, shutting out the view 
of the surrounding country, and affording only a 
glimpse of the winding Tamar sweeping around 
under Halton and Liftor, woods past Clifton, and 
6o 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


6i 


Hanging Cliff (Hinny-clay). The tower contains 
two objects of interest: one is a tall ash-tree, which 
has conveniently twisted itself around so as to give 
a sight of the other object, which would otherwise 
be hidden by it. This is the life-sized figure of an 
old man, attired in the costume of the upper classes 
in the end of the seventeenth century. 

The figure is seated in a high-backed armchair, 
his hands resting on the elbows, and his face bearing 
a quiet, thoughtful expression. On certain days in 
the summer months, by special permission from the 
owner of the property, the place is visited by hun- 
dreds of excursionists, who climb up and take a look 
at the figure in the chair, and either go away filled 
with an idle curiosity as to what it all means or seat 
themselves on the stone benches in the porch and 
recount some of the wild legends connected with 
the spot. I should explain that the figure is cast in 
lead, or, perhaps more correctly, as an old lady ex- 
plained : ’T ees a Latin man that is, a mixture of 
tin and lead. There are some strange stories con- 
nected with this spot, which is really the burial 
place of Sir James Tillie, who died either in the 
reign of James H or William and Mary. 

One legend is that the said Sir James was a wild, 


62 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


reckless old sinner, intensely avaricious, and by no 
means scrupulous as to means used for acquiring 
wealth. Further, that he held unlawful intercourse 
with the Prince of Darkness ; that, in fact, he carried 
on business transactions with his Satanic Majesty of 
a peculiarly personal character; that on one occa- 
sion he actually sold himself to the devil for a large 
jackboot filled with gold coins, Satan to have his 
soul as soon as the boot was full. 

On the night fixed for the fulfilling of the con- 
tract, Sir James brought his boot, in which he had 
taken the precaution to cut a hole, to Mount Ararat, 
and Satan poured gold into the boot, which ran out at 
the hole as fast as it was poured in at the top. Day- 
light approaching, and Satan’s patience becoming 
exhausted, and also probably despairing of being 
able to fulfill his part of the contract until the Klon- 
dike should be discovered. Sir James was left alone 
with his ill-gotten wealth. 

Another story relates to the same transaction, 
with this variation, viz. ; that Satan was to come into 
possession of Sir James’s soul as soon as his bones 
touched the earth. The shrewd old knight out- 
witted the devil in the following ingenious and orig- 
inal manner: He ordered that after he was dead 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 63 

his body should be taken to Mount Ararat and seated 
in a chair, under which was placed a large pan. A 
table covered with bottles and glasses was to be set 
m front of him. In the course of time his bones 
would fall, not on the earth, but into the pan ; and so 
Satan was to be baffled after all. 

For centuries the belated countryman on his way 
from Paynters Cross to Halton, by way of Pillhead, 
has seen strange dark figures among the trees, and 
above the howling of the southwest gale has heard 
sounds of angry altercation between the baffled pur- 
chaser and the exultant seller of souls. 

What is probably the true version is that given 
by Turner, the historian, which is that Sir James 
Tillie was a pious, devout, studious Puritan, who 
loved retirement and solitude. He frequently used 
to stroll out to Mount Ararat and spend hours, 
both by day and night, in meditation and study of 
the Sacred Writings, holding communion, not with 
Satan, but with him who in the days of his flesh used 
to retire to mountains and solitary places for the 
same purpose; and so far from selling himself to 
Satan, that spot may have witnessed many a glo- 
riously successful conflict with the powers of dark- 
ness ; after which the old knight may have returned 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


64 

to his castle with his soul filled with the peace of God 
which passeth all understanding, and caring little for 
the suspicious way in which his godless neighbors 
watched his movements and misrepresented his ac- 
tions. The historian adds that Sir James was so 
deeply attached to this spot that he expressed a wish 
to be interred there, and, accordingly, a stone vault 
was constructed after his death, into which his body 
was placed, and a figure closely resembling him in his 
favorite posture erected over the place of his in- 
terment. 

The spot may be, probably is, ''holy ground,” 
from which will arise, not a "body of humiliation” 
(Eph. iii, 21) united to a soul sold to Satan, but one 
"conformed to the body of his glory,” joined forever 
to a soul, "redeemed not with corruptible things, 
such as silver and gold ; but with precious blood as of 
a lamb without blemish and without spot, even the 
blood of Christ.” (i Peter i, 19, Rev. Ver.) 


SKETCH VI. 


How Bii^iv Pi^NRUDDERY Ste:e:re:d Straight ^or 
THE Light. 

“Keep her head straight for the light, Billy.” 

‘^All right, Cap’n.” 

Whoever has been up the Tamar on the flood- 
tide has not failed to notice the long string of barges 
either drifting along with the tide, assisted by a long 
pair of sweeps, running merrily along before a brisk 
south or southwesterly breeze, or tacking up against 
a north or northeast wind. They are by no means 
ungraceful craft or bad sailors. Their rig consists of 
a single mast, a mainsail and foresail, with some- 
times a jib and gaff topsail. Their capacity varies 
from twenty-five to seventy or eighty tons ; although, 
when they are built the latter size, they are usually 
smack-rigged and take longer voyages around the 
coast. 

Their cargo up the river consists of raw lime- 

5 65 


66 


RBAL LIFE SK BTC MBS. 


stone, street sweepings (used extensively as a fer- 
tilizer, and a valuable one, on the fruit gardens and 
grass lands), chemical manures, grain, groceries, etc. 
Their down-cargo is usually brick, granite, fireclay, 
arsenic, etc. They are usually manned by two men, 
or a man and a boy, according to size. These men 
are dignified by the title of “cap’n” and '‘mate.” 

They are generally shrewd, intelligent men ; 
some having a very considerable amount of ability. 
Several whom I knew as boys and young men on 
the barges are now filling positions of trust and re- 
sponsibility. Some, however, were capable of com- 
mitting blunders of such a peculiarly grotesque 
character as to furnish material for yarns without 
stint or measure for years and even generations to 
come. Such, for instance, was the mate who, when 
the "cap’n” was tacking up the river against a 
strong northwind, asked in all simplicity why he 
did not sail straight on. And another when they 
were beating down on t he ebb-tide and against 
a southeaster, the stern catching the mud as they 
swung around, positively refused to quit his station 
“before the mast” to assist the “cap’n” to heave 
her off with the pole, alleging as a reason that his 
end was afloat. 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 67 

Just such a blunderer was the hero of this 
sketch, Mr. William Penruddery, mate of the good 
ship Mary Ann of Cal stock, locally pronounced 
‘‘Castick.^’ 

Mr. Penruddery’s superior officer was Captain 
John Trewindlass, whom I met on several occasions 
previous to his departure for Australia, where he 
died several years ago. He is said to have been a 
man of quick temper, which expressed itself on one 
or two occasions by chasing Mr. Penruddery sev- 
eral times around the deck of the Mary Ann, armed 
with a double rope, with which he wished to correct 
some of his errors, Billy escaping by getting ashore 
over the flat mud. 

Captain Trewindlass, however, must have been 
possessed of most exemplary patience, or he would 
never have borne with Billy’s peculiarities as long 
as he did. One striking trait in Mr. Penruddery ’s 
character was his ambition; modest, it is true, but 
still there it was ; and it just reached the tiller of the 
Mary Ann. 

The endless routine of loading limestone at 
Catte Down or Orriston, and unloading at Halton 
Quay or Calstock, of tending the foresail and tug- 
ging at the fore sweep, was all very well in its way ; 


68 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


but why was he not allowed to steer? This was a 
question that bothered Billy considerably. Had Cap- 
tain Trewindlass been consulted on the matter he 
would probably have explained that he did not want 
to lose a tide by having the Mary Ann run on a mud- 
bank, and he had equally strong objections to her 
smashing her bows against one of her most gracious 
majesty's warships in the Hamoaye. And so Cap- 
tain John stuck to the helm, and kept Billy before 
the mast. However, as all things come to them 
that wait, so the opportunity for gratifying his 
ardent aspirations came to Billy in the sudden and 
unexpected manner in which such opportunities 
usually come. It was the afternoon of a day in the 
fall of 185 — . The Mary Ann had taken in her 
cargo of limestone at Catte Down, and dropped 
down Cattewater on the ebb-tide. On rounding 
Lamb-hay Point a brisk southerly wind carried her 
rapidly along inside Drake’s Island past Millbay 
Docks and Firestone Bay around Devil’s Point and 
up the harbor. Was it some subtle and peculiar in- 
fluence emanating from the last-named promontory 
that suggested the wicked thought that developed 
itself into a plan for gratifying his mate’s ambition 
and his own inbred love of fun and mischief that 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 69 

took possession of Captain Trewindlass, and kept his 
mind occupied as he carefully threaded his way past 
the Royal Adelaide, Royal William, Impregnable, 
Cambridge, Pique, and others, which shall receive 
due attention in another sketch? It may have been. 
At any rate, darkness had fallen on the Cornish hills 
and the wooded cliffs of Warleigh when Captain 
John felt a scarcely perceptible tremor through the 
deeply laden craft, and knew that she was on the 
Saltash mussel bank and would remain there until 
the morning tide floated her off. Right ahead, and 
about four or five miles distant, was the glimmer of 
the light in the Tamar smelting works at Weir 
Quay. 

‘‘Billy !’" “Hillo, Cap’n came the answer from 
before the mast. “You may take the helium 
and steer for a spell, if you like.'’ Had Billy’s ears 
deceived him? Was it possible that promotion had 
come at last? With trembling eagerness Mr. Pen- 
ruddery made fast the foresail halyards, sprang 
lightly across the hatches, and in a moment was be- 
side his captain. 

“Whichy way do ee want me to steer, Cap’n?” 

“Keep her head straight for the light, Billy.” 

“All right, Cap’n!” 


70 


REAL LIPB SKETCHES. 


Billy eagerly seized the tiller, while Captain John 
descended to the cabin to prepare his supper. Billy 
was hungry ; but what was hunger when promotion 
was attained and ambition satisfied. 

Presently there came a call : "‘Billy.” 

“Hillo, Cap’n.” 

“How ^s ’er lookin?” 

“All right, Cap’n !” 

“Very well, I ^m goin’ to turn in. Tell me when 
you Ve passed the light.” 

“All right, Cap’n !” 

It would be difficult to tell what passed through 
Mr. Penruddery’s mind during the hours that fol- 
lowed : — visions of one day commanding the new 
barge now being built at B rooming’s yard, and steer- 
ing her past the Mary Ann, while Captain Trewind- 
lass was chasing his successor around the deck with 
a double rope; the possibility of one day command- 
ing a brig or a schooner and being hailed in Ply- 
mouth Sound and Swansea Bay as “Captain Pen- 
ruddery;” the possibility, rather remote, it is true, 
of one day retiring as the owner of brigs and schoon- 
ers, while Captain Trewindlass was still carrying 
limestone and wielding the double rope. Meanwhile 
the wind whistled through the rigging and kept the 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


71 


main sail filled and the forest flapping from side to 
side as Billy tramped across the deck shifting the 
tiller from side to side in his laudable endeavor to 
keep straight for the light. After some hours it 
dawned upon him that something was wrong. The 
Mary Ann had considerably morje free board than 
she had. Nail Point occupied much the same po- 
sition on the port bow as when he took the helm. 
Looming as it did through the darkness, its distance 
and position were alike deceptive, still he did not 
like the looks of things. Then patches of sand began 
to show through the water, and the deck was slop- 
ing at too great an angle for a loaded craft in deep 
water with a light wind. Then the sound of snoring 
from Captain John’s bunk ceased, there was a move- 
ment, and Captain Trewindlass’s head appeared 
above the deck. 

"'How ’s ’er lookin’, Billy ? Be us past the 
light?” 

“N-N-No, Cap’n,” was the hesitating reply of 
the mate. 

“Why, Billy, we’re aground!” 

Then the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but 
the truth flashed upon Mr. Penruddery’s mind. He 
had been steering a grounded craft for hours when 




REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


he might as well have been sleeping. There would 
have been trouble on the Mary Ann only for this, 
that Billy remembered that the new barge he was 
to command was still on the stocks at Brooming’s 
yard, and the brigs and schooners he was to own 
were fading away into the remote distance; and 
worse still, there were a hundred yards of deep water 
and half a mile of soft mud between the mussel 
bank and solid ground, and that Captain Trewind- 
lass and his double rope were things of the immedi- 
ate, terrible present. 


SKETCH VII. 


Dick Trephunny and the Parson's Tithe. 

“ Beeralston was a borough town 
When Plj^mouth was a furzy down.” 

Whatever truth there may have been in this old 
legend, or whether Beeralston really antedated Ply- 
mouth or not, I am not prepared to say; but until 
recent years the town had a decided air of antiquity 
which impressed me even as a child, and awakened 
a strong desire to pry into those old secrets which 
I felt sure must lie hidden behind those old cob- 
walls under the thatched roofs and among the ruins 
of that old structure which formerly stood at the 
corner of Fore Street and Bedford Street, which 
latter used to bear the gruesome name of Gallows 
Street. The old ruin referred to, which a century 
ago and subsequently was used as a poorhouse, was 
formerly a “religious house” attached to the Abbey 
of Tavistock, a portion of which is now the Bedford 
73 


74 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


Hotel. My youthful curiosity has only been very 
slightly gratified, and I have only been able to col- 
lect a few scattered fragments, which fragments, 
however, are interesting to those who are acquainted 
with the ancient borough. My grandfather had 
some interest in one of those old thatched houses 
above referred to, and while the building was under- 
going repairs his eldest son, whose birth, according 
to the register now before me, took place on January 
I793 j was as a child climbing about the place 
when something bright caught his eye under the 
thatch. He at once pulled out what proved to be 
an old calvary sword of very peculiar workmanship. 
The weapon was rusty, the point being broken off, 
the hilt covered with a finely-woven network of 
copper wire. The guard was of massive brass 
worked into an imitation of a large scallop shell, 
from which massive bars of brass curved round and 
terminated in a solid boss. The thumb-guard and 
other parts had dents, indicating that it had seen 
service. This curious old weapon, which came into 
my possession nearly thirty years ago, is now hang- 
ing in the great hall at Cothele House, having been 
presented by me to the Earl of Mount Edgcumbe 
when I left England. How got it where my uncle 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


75 


found it ? May it not have been one of those weap- 
ons hidden by its owner after the collapse of the 
Duke of Monmouth’s rebellion in 1685, the owner 
hoping to escape the vengeance of Kirke, Kingston, 
and the notorious Jeffries? 

So much for my uncle’s old sword. An old book 
in my possession, entitled “A History of the Govern- 
ment of the Primitive Church,” was written by Sir 
Peter King, an Exeter man, who was Lord Chan- 
cellor of England in the reign of Queen Anne, and 
represented Beeralston in the British House of Com- 
mons in the latter years of William and Mary. 

One day in the month of July, 1886, I was one 
of a party of about five hundred invited guests who 
assembled at Mount Edgcumbe to celebrate the com- 
ing of age of Viscount Valletort. Among those 
present was the late Duke of Northumberland. I 
remember in the course of his after-dinner speech 
the aged nobleman informed us that he was the last 
who represented Beeralston in Parliament previous 
to its being disfranchised by the Reform Bill of 
1832. 

The parish, according to Dugdale,* derives its 
name from Sir Henry de Ferrers, who owned the 

♦Antiquities of England and Wales. 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


76 

property in the early Norman period. It afterward 
passed into the hands of the Alen9on family, who 
gave their name to the borough of Bere Alen^on, 
or Beeralston. In the fifteenth century we find one 
Robert Willoughby in possession here, and judging 
from a document in the possession of Lord Mount 
Edgcumbe, dated 1470, and which was read by 
his lordship before the Royal Archaeological Society 
some years ago, I infer that this Robert Willoughby, 
Esq., must have been a sort of fifteenth-century 
‘‘Sitting Bull.” I shall have occasion to refer to 
this gentleman and his eccentricities later on. After 
passing through the hands of the Dukes of Bucking- 
ham it came by marriage into the Mount Edgcumbe 
family, who are its present owners. 

The moral and spiritual condition of Beeralston 
at the beginning of the nineteenth century appears 
to have been rather low. As is frequently the case 
in old English parishes, the church was situate at 
one corner of the parish, so that Beeralston, at that 
time the center of considerable mining operations, 
was entirely without the ministrations of the Angli- 
can clergy. A manuscript diary kept by one Mr. 
Isaac Barrett, who was an active Methodist local 
preacher residing in the town at that time, throws 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


77 


considerable light upon the state of things there, and 
the efforts made by the Methodists and Congrega- 
tionalists to improve it. 

It was early in the century when the Rev. 
Mr. Rooker, Congregational minister of Tavistock, 
commenced holding services in the town, walking 
over from Tavistock, a distance of over six miles, 
in all weathers and over fearful roads to preach to 
the few earnest souls who formed the nucleus of 
the Congregational Church there. I may mention 
that my grandfather and grandmother were among 
the first members of the Church. This Mr. Rooker 
was the father of the late Alfred Rooker, Esq., 
whose statue adorns the Guildhall Square at Ply- 
mouth. The movement grew. A wealthy lady, a 
Miss Stevens, gave land for a chapel and parsonage 
and donated a sum of money, the interest of which 
should form a portion of the pastor’s salary. To 
indicate the tenacity with which they hold on to their 
ministers, I may state that only three men have held 
that position during the century — Rev. W. Wil- 
lainds, who resigned on account of old age in 1857; 
the Rev. William Hill, who died in 1880; and the 
present pastor, the Rev. Walter Nall, who succeeded 
him in 1881. 


78 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


I have many pleasant personal memories con- 
nected with the Congregational church in Beeral- 
ston, which, however, may not be of interest to the 
general reader. Now for my story: 

My hero was born in Beeralston about the year 
1800. The parish apprentice system, so vividly de- 
scribed by Mark Guy Pearse in “Simon Jasper,” 
was in full operation at the time, and when scarcely 
seven years old Dick was “bound out” with a well- 
to-do farmer, cattle-dealer, and butcher, one Mr. 
James Pensolid. That Mr. Pensolid was able to en- 
force strict discipline we gather from Dick’s own 
statements. From the same source and the fact 
that Dick served him for twenty years, or long after 
his term of apprenticeship had expired, we infer 
that he was a kindhearted man and a good master. 
He was also a stanch Nonconformisti One of Dick’s 
most prominent characteristics was his intense love 
of fun and mischief, which often manifested itself 
in the most grotesque and unexpected manner. This 
propensity, which I have often noticed in members 
of the Trephunny family, appears to have stuck to 
Dick through life. He also had an impediment in 
his speech. This did not trouble Dick much ; for if 
he did not follow the apostolic precedent by glory- 


RBAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


79 


ing in his infirmities, he had at all events the good 
sense to make fun of them. Many were Dick’s 
youthful escapades, one or two of which I will relate 
as near as I can in his own words : 

'‘I was got awful w-w-wicked. I-I h-h-hadden 
had a h-hidin o-or a long t-t-time, en I thort ’t was 
t-t-time I ’ad wan. M-maister hollered to me wan 
d-day en t-told me to zaddle ’es oss vur en. I went 
in the stable en tooked the z-zaddle en put en on 
backsyoore. Then I stuffed me j -jacket vull ov 
straw en laid the oss vore to the door. Out comes 
M-maister. Fust words was, ‘Take off that coat, 
young feller.’ G-g-gush I ’ad it then en dedden 
vorget et vor zum time.” 

The well at Mr. Pensolid’s farm was situated 
at the bottom of a rather steep lane, and one of the 
duties of the apprentice girl was to fetch the water 
for the house, the last trip to the well generally being 
about dusk. Dick determined one evening to 
frighten Jenny. How he succeeded is best told in 
his own words : 

‘T thort I should l-like to f-frighten J-j- jenny, 
zo I g-g-got intu an old empty b-b-barrel en started 
to r-r-roll d-down the hill. Away I went vaster en 
vaster down the lane whack thump w-w-whack 


8o 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


thump ovvur the stones, mit J-j-jinny cornin’ up. 
Jinny stood wan zide. 'Th-th-there thee goest, old 
Dicky,’ sez er, en bust out laughin’ w-w-way I went 
tu the b-b-bottom ov the hill, me head knackin 
against the stones g-g-gush et nearly scat me brains 
out. I nevvur tried th-th-that game again.” 

During Dick’s early manhood, life and property 
both in the towns and rural districts were in con- 
stant danger; outrages of various kinds were un- 
pleasantly frequent. The demand for bodies of de- 
ceased persons for the purpose of dissection gave 
rise to the practice of “body-snatching” by a class 
of miscreants known as “resurrection men.” Dick- 
ens’s “Tale of Two Cities” shows up some of the 
horrors of this trade, and many a gruesome story 
is told in the west of England to this day of mys- 
terious and horrible proceedings in town and coun- 
try cemeteries and graveyards. I remember an 
elderly man telling me some years ago how that 
when a boy he was sent by his master from Hessen- 
ford to Liskeard on an errand to a doctor, and re- 
turning some time after midnight along a lonely road 
in a wooded valley he was scared by overtaking two 
men carrying a coffin. The lateness of the hour and 
the mysterious movements of the men always filled 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


8i 


his mind with the idea that something was wrong. 
About this time a man named Burk, who was after- 
ward hanged at Newgate for his crime, contrived a 
plan for procuring bodies for this purpose, the atroc- 
ity of which struck terror into the hearts of dwellers 
in both town and country. 

A person would be overtaken in a dark country 
lane or dimly-lighted city street. His arms would 
be seized and a plaster of Burgundy pitch would 
be clapped on his mouth. Being deprived of the 
power of speech, he would easily be led away, his 
struggles would be regarded by casual passersby as 
the result of intoxication, and so the victim, being 
led to a convenient spot, suffocation would soon do 
its work, and a fresh body would find its way into 
some dissecting-room the next morning. 

The terror found its way into Bereferris, and 
few would venture abroad unarmed. Dick, how- 
ever, adopted an original, if not an effective, mode 
of defense. One very dark night Mr. William Pen- 
solid was returning from a visit to the lady who 
afterwards became Mrs. Pensolid. His attention 
was drawn to a distant clanking of chains, ^^clink 
clank, clink clank,’’ drawing gradually nearer. 
What on earth could it mean? The clanking was 

6 


82 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


irregular, and accompanied now and then by a low 
growl or moan. Presently he reined up his horse. 

“Hullo! Who’s this? What ’s the matter ?” 

Then out of the darkness there came a great 
sigh of relief and the familiar voice of Dick Tre- 
phunny : 

“O ! O ! O I Is that you, Maister Willyum ?” 

“Why, who did you think it was, Dick ?” 

“G-g-gush, I thort ’t was wan ov they pootch 
plaster chaps, Maister.” 

“Well, and what if it had been, Dick?” Mr. 
Pensolid had now observed as Dick stood close to 
his stirrup that Trephunny was enveloped in chains, 
which were wrapped around his body and were trail- 
ing on the ground behind him. “What were you 
going to do with all your chains? You could not 
expect to bind up a resurrection man, could you?” 

“N-n-no, Maister,” replied Dick; “but I-I-I 
thort he might th-th-think I was the old feller.” 

And so Dick, hoping to scare resurrection men 
off the face of the earth by assuming certain sup- 
posed characteristics of their lord and master, toiled 
laboriously up the hill toward Beeralston. 

On Mount Wise, Devonport, there stands an old 
bell-metal cannon of immense caliber, and fourteen 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 83 

or fifteen feet in length. There are Turkish in- 
scriptions on it, and an inscription in English to 
the effect that it was brought from the Dardanelles 
by Admiral Duckworth in 1807. One evening, busi- 
ness having detained Mr. Trephunny in Devonport 
rather longer than he intended, and the market boats 
having all left, Dick wandered up on Mount Wise, 
and looked wistfully over the twelve or fourteen 
miles of Devonshire hills and valleys that lay be- 
tween him and home. Approaching the old gun he 
walked around it, viewing it curiously. Presently 
up steps a smart-looking artilleryman swinging his 
cane, and looking rather superciliously at Dick he 
addressed him in a rather patronizing manner: 

“Well, my man, that ’s a fine gun, is n’t it?” 

“E-e-es, Maister,” replied Dick. “I-I say I 
w-w-wish you ’d put me in thecky there gun and fire 
me horn to Betsy.” 

What kind of reception he expected to meet 
when he got “horn” in that peculiar manner, or 
whether Mrs. Trephunny would recognize this hom- 
ing pigeon as her lord and master, Dick did not 
explain; nor did the soldier ask. 

But it was the Church tithe question as it ex- 
isted in Dick’s time that engrossed his attention 


84 RBAL life sketches. 

and exercised his faculties considerably. The Eng- 
lish tithe laws as they stood prior to the passing of 
the Tithe Commutation Act of 1836, were of a 
singularly unreasonable and, especially as they af- 
fected Nonconformists, oppressive character. Under 
the operation the Anglican clergy claimed one-tenth 
of the product of the soil, whether grain, fruit, or 
cattle, as their due. It was in the power of the rector 
of a parish to commute the tithe during the term 
of his incumbency, and accept a stipulated sum in 
money in lieu of farm and garden produce. This 
arrangement, however, was not binding on his suc- 
cessor, who could revert to the old system if he chose 
to do so. As far back as the reign of Charles I, 
Selden had protested strongly against this law, and 
had brought down the vengeance of the Star Cham- 
ber on his head in consequence ; but neither the Star 
Chamber nor the fact that the law had existed ever 
since A. D. 786 made its enactment any more rea- 
sonable or its enforcement any more bearable. The 
rector of Bereferris at the time of my story was the 
Rev. Boanerges Fitzputoponnem. He appears to 
have been a man in whom the early Stuart kings 
would have delighted; but he was hardly suited for 
such real ministerial work as his parish required. 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


85 

Stories that sound strange to us nowadays are told 
of wild orgies at the rectory; of old ladies racing 
on the lawn on a Sunday afternoon, the prize being 
a new gown; of a certain tragedy in which a lady 
whose relationship with the reverend gentleman was 
of a rather peculiar character was the chief actor. 
But the Rev. Boanerges rendered himself par- 
ticularly obnoxious by the enforcement of the tithe- 
law in its old form of taking it in kind — his pred- 
ecessors having, in common with a large proportion 
of the Anglican clergy, availed themselves of that 
clause which enabled them to commute it for a rea- 
sonable equivalent in money. It will be readily un- 
derstood that, if under those circumstances the 
farm laborers appropriated some portion of the 
clerical tithes to their own private use, the farmers 
did not overexert themselves in their efforts to pre- 
vent them, even if they did not actually connive, 
at their proceedings. Dick Trephunny, viewing it 
from the standpoint that his master was a supporter 
of another Church, regarded the payment of tithe 
in kind as a decided hardship, and set his active 
brain to work to mitigate it as much as possible, and, 
by the way, derive some trifling benefit himself. If 
Dick was not a political agitator he at any rate 


86 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


kept the minds of the Rev. Boanerges and his 
“tithe proctor/^ Mr. Gehazi Pensmellarat, in a state 
of constant agitation, as in some unaccountable 
way the tithe from Mr. Pensolid’s farm never to- 
taled up to what was expected. If Pensmellarat 
questioned Dick on the matter, the latter invariably 
replied that P-p-p-passon F-f-f-f-fitzputopponem 
didn’t employ him (Mr. Trephunny) to look after 
the tithe, which was true in the strictest sense of 
the word, although it was generally believed that 
Dick did look after it, without being employed. 

And so, as time passed, Mr. Pensolid’s tithe con- 
tinued to present a leakage. If one hundred shocks 
of wheat stood in a certain field, only seven or eight 
could be found out of the ten set aside. If half a 
ton of cherries were picked one day, the two baskets 
of fifty-six pounds each showed a deficiency of sev- 
eral pounds, while there was a suspicious odor of 
roast lamb around Dick’s cottage about the time 
when Mr. Pensmellarat should have been collecting 
juvenile muttons for his reverence of Beer Town. It 
was a fine morning in the spring of 183 — . Dick 
and a man named Alexander Polsmarty were at 
work in the yard, when Gehazi Pensmellarat was 
observed coming down the lane. At a hint from 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 87 

Dick, Aleck quietly slipped away. Accosting the 
tithe proctor with his usual bluff civility, Dick held 
him in conversation for some minutes, Dick taking 
full advantage of the impediment in his speech to 
prolong the talk as much as possible. 

At last Mr. Pensmellarat started on his errand, 
which was to look after the lambs which had that 
day been weaned and hurdled off for the parson. 
He was half way across the yard when he was ar- 
rested by a strange gurgling sound behind him. It 
was Dick trying to pronounce his name. Failing 
after several attempts to say ‘‘Gehazi,’’ Dick tried 
‘‘Maister P-p-p-pen-s-s-s-s-s” — “Well, Dick, what 
is it ?” said the proctor, interpreting Dick’s desire to 
pronounce his name. “What ’s the matter ?” 
“H-h-h-hev ’ee yurd the cuckoo yet? They zay 
there ’s wan up to Rumleigh, and wan up tu Gallan 
Bower; b-b-but I reckon ours is dead.” 

Muttering some imprecation on cuckoos in gen- 
eral and Mr. Pensolid’s in particular, Pensmellarat 
hurried on. There was the usual shortage in the 
number of lambs that morning, and when Pensmell- 
arat returned and found Trephunny and Polsmarty 
quietly working together he severely questioned 
them on the subject. All the satisfaction he got 


88 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


was a severe lecture on his own lack of smartness 
and zeal in looking after his master’s property. 

Ten gallons, equal to fifty pounds of strawber- 
ries! ^‘Carolines,” that good old English variety, 
dumped into one basket and placed aside by the 
hedge “For the parson.” “Carolines!” rich, red, 
sweet, firm; what other variety would stand such 
treatment? Not “Maudes,” or “Presidents,” or 
“Paxtons,” or any of the varieties which have super- 
seded them. It is quite thirty years since I saw 
a genuine “Caroline.” I have handled many vari- 
eties since, having been engaged in fruit-growing, 
with little interruption, all my life; but for richness 
of flavor commend me to a “Caroline.” 

And Dick Trephunny saw them as he was as- 
sisting to load the other baskets into the market 
boat. He saw them and regarded them as too good 
to be immolated in the cause of an unreasonable 
and unrighteous law. The evening’s work ended, 
there followed a consultation with Alexander Pol- 
smarty, which resulted in two men walking across 
the strawberry garden, carrying a corn sack. 

The traveler on the Beeralston Road that night 
must have noticed strange, mysterious red spots on 
the dusty roadway and wondered what it meant. At 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 89 

the top of Whitsom Hill he might have observed 
a weary man resting a heavy load against the 
hedge, and, on asking him what he carried, the 
reply would have been: ‘^S-s-s-s-s-s-s-t-t-t-t-t.” 
Thinking he had unwittingly disturbed a brood of 
snakes, he would have walked on. There is a limit 
to the strongest powers of endurance, both in men 
and strawberries; and even fifty pounds of ‘^Caro- 
lines” will hardly stand the ordeal of being carried 
two miles in a corn sack. Nor would the British 
public hear with calm complacency that an honest 
workingman had been drenched with strawberry- 
juice while trying to ease his conscience in the mat- 
ter of an obnoxious law; and so we find “the tithe 
commutation act, 1836, 6-7 William iv, cap. 71 
and we hear Dick Trephunny afterward relating 
his adventure with evident enjoyment, and declar- 
ing: “G-g-g-g-gush ! I-I-I-I was jest d-d-drowned.^’ 


SKETCH VIII. 

Captain Pje:ntopsei.i."s Courtship and its Rather 
Disastrous Ending. 

“ But I kriawed a Quaker feller as often as towd ma this ; 

’Dount thou marry for munny, hut goa wheer munny is ! 

An’ I went wheer munny wheer.” 

— “Northern Farmer” (Tennyson). 

But just at that point Captain Pentopseirs ex- 
perience ceased to tally with that of the north coun- 
try farmer, and that is why on that dark October 
evening in 183— we find him picking his way rather 
moodily along the beach under ^‘Hinnyclay” Woods 
and calling out his mate, Mr. Trebinnacle, who is 
in the midst of a quart of ^'sixpenny” and a yarn 
with four or five Bereferris farmers, who have met 
at the '‘Cross Oars’" public house, now the “Tamar 
Hotel,” at Holes’ Hole ; and that explains why there 
is a dead silence, broken only by the thumping of the 
oars in the rowlocks and the “clank-clank, chunk- 
shuff ” of the great pumping engine at South 


90 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


91 


Hovemine, as they pull off to the Dorothy, lying in 
the stream. And that is why Mr. Trebinnacle wears 
such a puzzled look as he makes the boat fast to the 
stern of the brig, and, after taking a look around 
to see that everything is ail right, follows his chief 
to the cabin, wondering why Captain Pentopsell, 
usually the most genial and lively of all the skip- 
pers in the port of Plymouth, should be so dull and 
glumpy on this particular evening, and why he 
should have come on board at least two hours before 
the time he usually did when they were lying off 
Holes’ Hole, which was often the case when they 
were bound up the Tamar with a cargo of coal. For 
Captain Pentopsell had wooed, in rather clumsy 
fashion, it is true ; had proposed in a fashion equally 
clumsy, and been rejected in a not particularly 
roundabout manner. 

Captain Pentopsell commanded one of those 
great old brigs, which were so plentiful in the Eng- 
lish Channel seventy years ago. Square-rigged with 
square bows, it is now superseded by the smart, light- 
rigged clipper-built schooners, worked with half the 
amount of labor required to navigate craft of the 
former class. There were no tugboats on the Ta- 
mar in those days, and coal-laden ships bound for 


92 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


Calstock and Morwellham had to toil slowly and 
painfully up the river or wait, wind-bound and tide- 
bound, for days together in some reach of the river ; 
and it very curiously often fell to the lot of the Dor- 
othy to meet with some hindrance somewhere be- 
tween Holes’ Hole and Pentillie. 

The reason was, this Captain Pentopsell was in 
love, deeply so; and the object of his affection was 
a Miss Trebullion, who resided at Warren House — 
not the farmhouse down by the water’s edge, cozily 
sheltered from the westerly gales by the clump of 
gigantic elms — but that plain, substantial-looking 
building a few hundreds of yards more to the east- 
ward, with its large garden around it and the row 
of tall cypresses and arbor- vitaes in front. Miss 
Trebullion was a lady of independent means, rather 
past middle age, with certain traits of character 
which are so often met with in Devonshire and Cor- 
nish ladies, where open-hearted, genial affability and 
stately, dignified reserve wheel into line and work in 
perfect harmony. Miss Trebullion’s household con- 
sisted of two servants — Emmanuel Sowton and his 
sister. Miss Mary Sowton. The former can be best 
described in Miss Trebullion’s own words : ‘Tf ever 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


93 


there was a saint upon earth, Emmanuel Sowton is 
one.” The latter is expressed by laying special em- 
phasis on Miss. 

Miss Trebullion’s most frequent visitors were the 
little Pensolid girls, who, judging from my recollec- 
tion of them as middle-aged and elderly ladies, must, 
as children, have kept her tolerably lively. I can 
fancy them now — Ann and Mary, Grace and little 
deaf Janie — running across the fields from the ad- 
joining farm to tell Miss Trebullion of Dick Tre- 
phunny’s latest escapade or Mrs. Penclumsy’s latest 
exploit in cooking sheeps’ heads. It was at Mr. 
Pensolid’s that Miss Trebullion and Captain Pen- 
topsell first met. She was spending the evening with 
Mrs. Pensolid, and the Dorothy having dropped an- 
chor off North Hove, Captain Pentopsell had rowed 
ashore to have a chat with his friend, Mr. Pensolid, 
and to drink a jug of his Devonshire cider. Captain 
Pentopsell’s straight, open, honest, and intelligent 
style of conversation — so free as it was from all af- 
fectation and conventionality — impressed Miss Tre- 
bullion that he was a man wfib, while mixing freely 
with the outside world, could speak of his connec- 
tion with it without a taint of egotism or exaggera- 


94 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


tion. So the meeting at North Hove was followed 
by a general invitation to spent an evening occasion- 
ally at Warren whenever the Dorothy was detained 
that side the peninsula; and so we find that during 
the next seven years the Dorothy is anchored off 
South Hove rather more frequently than North 
Hove, and Captain Pentopsell a more frequent guest 
of Miss Trebullion than of Mr. Pensolid. 

Captain Pentopsell was a sailor and a gentleman. 
The first is proved by his being able for twenty years 
to navigate a brig up and down the English and 
Bristol Channels, around Land’s End and Trevose 
Head, Lundy Island, and the Mumbles, with an oc- 
casional trip across the Bay of Biscay to Corunna 
and Bilboa for a load of Spanish steers ; or down to 
St. Michaels in the Azores for a cargo of fruit. The 
second is proved by his being able, for seven years, 
to retain the esteem and confidence of a middle-aged 
West Country maiden-lady. Many, very many in- 
teresting accounts were given in that cozy parlor at 
Warren of the troubles in France after the restora- 
tion of the Bourbons, and the troubles in Spain con- 
nected with the first Carlist outbreak in the later 
twenties; of his anchoring in harbor at Bilboa and 


REAL LI PE SKETCHES. 


95 


witnessing the bombardment of the town by the 
Carlists under a general whose name he made most 
heroic attempts to pronounce, but, after getting as 
far as '‘Zummlala,’’ * abandoning it by declaring 
that it was too much like trying to hoist the sea- 
serpent over the weatherbow of the Dorothy with 
a crabwinch. 

And in his turn, how attentively he listened to 
Miss Trebullion’s account of her personal expe- 
riences on that memorable day when His Most Gra- 
cious Majesty King George IV came down and 
formally incorporated the borough of Devonport,t 
formerly known as ^‘Plymouth Dock;” and her trip 
across the river to attend the opening of the little 
Methodist chapel at Haye,t and listening to that 
most eccentric of all Cornish preachers, “Dicky” 
Hampton ! 

Did not the memory of those pleasant evenings 
linger in Captain Pentopsell’s mind on subsequent 
voyages ? And who is there who will accuse him of 
harboring thoughts of a mercenary character if he 
allowed certain rose-tinted visions to float before his 
mind now and then ? I, for one, certainly do not. 

« Zutnmlalachcarregui. ti825. 

X Replaced by the present building in 1886. 


96 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


“ Breathes there a man with soul so dead 
Who never to himself has said,” 

that a few thousands of pounds sterling well invested 
serve rather to enhance, than otherwise, the natural 
attractions of a middle-aged maiden-lady? 

And if on occasions when the Dorothy was beat- 
ing on and off the Land’s End in a westerly gale, 
and Pentopsell was peering anxiously through the 
darkness for a glimpse of the Longship’s light; or 
if, when in a fog so dense that you could almost 
cut it with a knife, he was trying to make Swansea 
Harbor, and nof by any means sure whether he was 
inside the Mumble’s Head or drifting on the sands 
at Oxwich Bay, there arose in his mind a vision of 
a cozy sitting-room behind a row of cypresses, and a 
retired sea-captain and his wife in the full enjoyment 
of domestic bliss, — dare any one deem him in- 
fluenced by mercenary motives? I confess that, for 
one, I do not. Pentopsell, like a brave man, deter- 
mined to make, if possible, this blissful vision a 
blessed reality; and so we find him on the evening 
on which this story opens in the aforesaid cozy sit- 
ting-room. All the accessories were there, but the 
lady still bore the name of Trebullion. Would she 
continue to bear it? That was the question to be 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


97 

settled on this momentous occasion. After some 
desultory conversation, during which Captain Pen- 
topsell seemed rather more than usually abstracted, 
there came a pause of some minutes’ duration. Then 
there came from the honest captain’s heart a sigh 
which indicated that he was nerving himself for a 
mighty effort. 

'‘Miss Trebullion, I ’ve lost something.” 

There was nothing startling about this. Sailors 
were often losing something. Sometimes they lost 
their reckoning. 

"Miss Trebullion, I’ve lost something! And 
you *ve stolen This was startling. Miss Tre- 
bullion, however, was blessedly conscious that she 
had never been on board the Dorothy purloining any- 
thing; and if any article had been surreptitiously 
brought ashore and on to her premises, Emmanuel 
Sowton would have immediately reported it. No! 
she had not even to her knowledge stolen his reck- 
oning. 

"What have I stolen. Captain Pentopsell?” was 
the lady’s very calm and very natural query. 

''You^ve stolen my he art , Miss Trebullion,” 
was the emphatic but rather nervous reply. During 
the pause that followed. Miss Trebullion’s clock 

7 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


98 

ticked exactly twelve times; but Captain Pentopsell 
was positive the Dorothy would have made three 
tacks, beating out of Plymouth Sound against a 
strong southwest breeze in that terrible interval. 

Then came the answer. 

I reckon it ’s my money that has stolen your 
heart, Captain Pentopsell.” 

Captain Pentopsell remembered how that many 
years before, when on a voyage to Halifax, N. S., 
he had passed dangerously close to an iceberg on 
the banks of Newfoundland. The peculiarly chill- 
ing sensation experienced on that occasion was trop- 
ical heat compared with the feeling that passed over 
him on this occasion. 

Then he saw, or thought he saw, two ladies 
present. One was Miss Trebullion rising to her feet 
and preparing to leave the room; the other was 
Miss Sowton, who had come in answer to a ring 
of the bell. 

Then he heard a cold, deliberate feminine voice : 
“Fetch Captain Pentopselhs hat. Miss Sowton. 
Good night. Captain Pentopsell.” 

Partly from maidenly pride at having received 
and rejected such an eligible offer, and partly from 
a latent love of fun and mischief this interesting 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


99 


episode in her life was related to the Pensolid fam- 
ily by the lady the next day, while the Dorothy, 
favored by the spring-tide and a southerly wind, 
was sailing around the peninsula and the rejected 
lover was slowly pacing her deck, mentally vowing 
never again to risk asphyxia or tetanus by trying to 
pronounce the name of a Spanish general, even for 
the sake of winning a middle-aged maiden lady with 
a fortune. 


LofC. 


SKETCH IX. 


Captain Pentee^’s Patrimony. 

Few farmers were better known or more highly 
respected in Callington Market forty years ago than 
Captain George Penlee, of Gooseford. As well as 
I can remember him he was a man of middle height, 
broad-shouldered and deep-chested, with a pair of 
gold earrings and, what was rather unusual in the 
early sixties, a heavy black beard and mustache. 
Everything around the Gooseford homestead was 
a pattern of methodical order and neatness. Dis- 
cipline such as is rigidly enforced on board a well- 
appointed merchant-ship or a man-of-war pervaded 
the farm. Every man and boy had his appointed 
work. Every animal had its appointed place in 
the cattle-sheds and stables. Every farm imple- 
ment was thoroughly cleaned and put in its place 
as soon as used, and every piece of harness was 
hung on its appointed peg in the harness-room. 
For Captain George Penlee had been a sailor. The 


lOO 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


lOI 


son of a farmer, he had gone to sea as a boy, and 
for several years previous to the time of my story 
owned and commanded the trading smack St. 
Helena. 

Captain Penlee was the only child of his parents, 
and his mother died when he was quite a child ; and 
his seafaring life had brought him into compara- 
tively little contact with his father’s atfairs, and 
there was perhaps less intercourse between them 
than is usual between father and son. After nearly 
twenty years spent in trading around the coast of 
England, the Channel Islands, France, and Holland, 
with an occasional visit to Gooseford and a few 
days in his father’s company. Captain Penlee arrived 
in Plymouth one day to receive the news of his 
father’s serious illness ; and before he reached 
Gooseford Mr. Penlee, Sr., was dead. He found 
his father’s youngest brother, Mr. Jacob Penlee, in 
charge of the farm, and quietly allowed him to make 
arrangements for the funeral, which took place in 
the old church at St. Dominic a few days after. 

The funeral passed in the usual quiet and solemn 
manner characteristic of West Country funerals; 
and the friends and relatives of the deceased were 
assembled in the parlor at Gooseford when Mr. 


lOZ 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


Jacob Penlee, addressing his nephew, remarked: 
“Your father died intestate, I believe, George/' 
Without awaiting a reply he went on: “And such 
being the case, I, as the nearest legitimate relative, 
am the owner of Gooseford." 

At the word “legitimate” the sailor’s blood 
boiled, and, springing to his feet, he demanded: 
“What do you mean, uncle?” 

“Be calm, George; I simply mean that your 
father and mother were never married,” was the 
startling reply. 

“Never married, uncle! This is the first time I 
ever heard that insinuation, and I insist on your 
proving that assertion.” 

“No, George I It is the other way. Before you 
can establish your claim to this property you must 
prove your legitimacy by producing a copy of the 
register of your parents’ marriage. Which you can 
never do, as I am positive such a marriage never 
took place.” 

Captain Penlee saw at once that whatever truth 
or falsehood there might be in Mr. Jacob Penlee’s 
assertion, it devolved on him to produce the proofs 
of his legitimacy before he could enter into pos- 
session of his patrimony, and a consultation with 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


103 

his attorney, Mr. Fitzbrief, confirmed that view of 
the case. 

But surely there would be little difficulty about 
this. That his parents were married somewhere in 
the immediate neighborhood, he had no doubt; but 
a search of the parish-registers of St. Dominic, St. 
Mellion, and Callington revealed nothing. St. 
Stephens, by Saltash; St. Andrews, Plymouth, and 
the church of Stoke Damerel were searched; but 
their archives contained no mention of the marriage 
of Robert Penlee and Priscilla Trelily. This looked 
serious. Months passed; and whenever the St. 
Helena was moored for a few days in Plymouth 
Pool her captain was off searching the musty old 
records of some more or less remote parish church 
in West Devon or East Cornwall. A year passed, 
and nearly every church from Saltash to Bude, from 
Tavistock to Bodmin had been visited by an anxious 
and indefatigable searcher, bent on obtaining proof 
of his legitimacy and his parents’ honor. Mean- 
while Mr. Jacob Penlee was in quiet and undisturbed 
possession of Gooseford, and enjoyed with a sense 
of deep satisfaction the reports that reached him 
from time to time of his nephew’s failures. 

Every visitor to Plymouth is familiar with the 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


104 

old '‘White Hart Hotel” in Oldtown Street. It 
was here that Captain Penlee made his home when 
in the port, and the proprietor, Mr. Trelodgem, took 
a keen interest in the affairs of the young sailor, 
who, he was convinced, was being unjustly deprived 
of his patrimony. 

It was here that Capt:iln Penlee arrived one day 
looking more than usually wearied and dispirited. 
On entering the parlor he was accosted by the host 
with: “Well, Captain Penlee, have you succeeded 
in your search yet ?” 

“No, Mr. Trelodgem,” was the reply; “and I am 
beginning to fear I never shall. That my father and 
mother were legally married I have no doubt what- 
ever; but where is the question, and, as you know, 
I must get positive proof before I can get my rights. 
I have been now to St. Cleer, St. Neot, Warleggan, 
and back by Duloe, Pelynt, Morval, St. Martins, 
Rame, and Maker. I have searched every record 
for the first twenty years of this century, and the 
last ten years of last; in fact from 1790, and as a 
result I am as far behind as ever.” 

Meanwhile an old woman who had entered the 
house had paused at the half-opened door of the par- 
lor and had overheard the conversation between the 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


105 

host and his guest. She now entered the room, and, 
approaching the sailor, exclaimed: “Be you the son 
of Maister Robert Penlee vrom St. Dammaleck? 
’Cause af yu be I ken tell ’ee where your father and 
mother was married, 'cause I was there," 

“Is that true, mistress ?” exclaimed Captain Pen- 
lee, his heart nearly jumping out of his body at the 
sound of her words. “Where was it?” 

“Yes, maister, tes true, I can assure ’ee ; an ’t was 
in Brent Tor Church. I remember et. I was 
livin’ in Brent Tor Churchtown then ; an’ wan morn- 
in’ a young couple come to the passonage in a ker- 
ridge, an’ the young man showed the passon his 
lishens, an’ zed they wanted to git married. So the 
passon married mun, and there was nobody there 
to witness it but me, Jane Penscourin, and the sex- 
ton, old Zachariah Treberriem. And our names be 
in the register-buke now.” 

The next moment Captain Penlee had placed two 
half-crowns in the hand of the old lady, exclaiming 
as he did so : “Met me here at this time the day after 
to-morrow, and if I find your story is correct, I ’ll 
give you five pounds.” 

Travelers coming to Plymouth by the London 
and Southwestern Railway can not fail to notice on 


io6 rbal life sketches . 

the western border of Dartmoor, not far from Lyd- 
ford Junction, a peculiarly shaped granite ^‘tor,’’ 
surmounted by a small church, the history of which 
is rather remarkable. It is said that many centuries 
ago a wealthy Bristol merchant, being in imminent 
danger of shipwreck in the Bristol Channel, made 
a vow that if he were spared to reach land he would 
build a church on the first bit of land he sighted. 
When the storm abated, a granite peak was seen 
piercing the sky, which proved to be Brent Tor ; and 
in the fulfillment of his vow he built the church, 
which to this day is a mark, and a familiar one, to 
travelers by both sea and land. Early on the mor- 
ning following his conversation with Mrs. Pen- 
scourin. Captain Penlee mounted a horse and took the 
road to Tavistock, and thence to Brent Tor Village. 
Here he obtained an interview with the rector of the 
parish, and after paying the usual fees the two 
gentlemen climbed the rocky “tor,’^ and, entering 
the vestry of the church, opened the parish chest. 
A few minutes’ search of the register brought them 
to the record of the marriage, in i8 — , of Robert 
Penlee, bachelor, and Priscilla Trelily, spinster, as 
witnessed by Zachariah Treberriem and Jane Pen- 
scourin. It was with a light heart that the young 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


107 


sailor left Brent Tor Churchtown that evening with 
a copy of that precious record in his pocket. It 
was with a happy countenance that he greeted his 
friend, Mr. Trelodgem, of the White Hart Hotel, the 
next day ; for had he not established beyond a doubt 
the honor of his father’s and his mother’s reputa- 
tion and his own legitimacy? Gladly, proudly, he 
handed the delighted Mrs. Penscourin a five-pound 
Bank-of-England note and rushed off to the office of 
Mr. Fitzbrief. It was with a look of dismay and a 
sinking heart that Mr. Jacob Penlee a few days later 
received such a communication from that gentleman 
as caused him to make a hasty surrender of Goose- 
ford farm to its rightful owner. 

How Captain Penlee took his farewell of the 
crew of the St. Helena, and took possession of 
his farm ; how he afterward married Miss Penphru- 
gal, of Ashton, and lived in peaceful retirement 
“ever after” are matters of detail ; but that is how 
Captain George Penlee got his patrimony. 


SKETCH X. 


John Pdnseppejlker, '"The Last Man in the 
Parish/^ 

It was a warm, bright day in the month of Sep- 
tember, 1870, and the people of St. Dominic were, 
with few exceptions, keeping holiday. I can scarcely 
believe, on looking back, that thirty years have 
passed since then, and that such a change has come 
over that crowd of people who were gathering 
around the Wesleyan chapel on that occasion. But 
so it is; and while seated here in my cottage in the 
British Columbian forest, looking out on the snow- 
covered landscape, engaged in writing those per- 
sonal reminiscences, my thoughts go back over the 
thirty years of time and the six thousand miles of 
land and water, and single them out and trace as 
accurately as I can their subsequent history. 

The babies of that day are now fathers and moth- 
ers of families. The young people are now grand- 
108 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


109 


parents. The middle-aged are now showing indi- 
cations of old age and decrepitude, while many of 
all ages have passed over the boundary of time. 

There are two especially whose faces are fa- 
miliar, and the very tones of their voices come back 
to me most vividly and distinctly. One is the Rev. 
Joseph Mole, then recently appointed to the circuit; 
one of whose strong propensities was walking to 
and from his appointments, and who has been known 
to walk back from Saltash to Callington after the 
evening service, and which is nine and a half miles 
by the milestone. He died some years afterward 
in a Welsh circuit, the cause of his death being in- 
flammation of the lungs, contracted in one of those 
late walks. The other is my old schoolmate, George 
Martin, dressed in the smart uniform of Her Maj- 
esty’s navy, and who within a year of that time was 
buried beneath the waters of the Persian Gulf, hav- 
ing lost his life while engaged in suppressing the 
East African slave-trade. 

The occasion of this gathering was the opening 
of the new Wesleyan schoolrooms. The new chapel 
had been built about two years, and now Mr. W. E. 
Forster’s compulsory education act was before the 
British Parliament and was likely to come into 


no 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


operation with the opening of the following year. 
So St. Dominic Wesleyans were anxious to get their 
premises completed by the time the act passed, and 
so obviate the necessity of erecting a new and ex- 
pensive building at the public cost while their own 
schoolroom would serve the double purpose of Sun- 
day and day school. I may add that during the 
one hundred and thirty years that have elapsed 
since then the enterprise has been entirely success- 
ful; the day-school retaining one teacher for over 
twenty years. 

But home politics and social functions did not 
engross the sole attention of the British rural popula- 
tion at that time. There were stirring events on the 
continent of Europe which found an echo in every 
village and hamlet in England at that time. France 
and Germany were in the throes of a deadly struggle. 
Gravelotte had been fought about two weeks. Louis 
Napoleon had a few days before surrendered to the 
Prussian king at Sedan. Strassburg and Metz 
were being invested by the Germans, and second and 
third editions of the papers were in great demand 
in every country town and village in England, and 
I well remember how eagerly those matters were 
being discussed at the meetings I am referring to. 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


Ill 


But, to return to the subject of my story, among 
those standing around in the road waiting for the 
opening of the “Tea Meeting,” which is to inaug- 
urate the formal dedication of the building, is Mr. 
Trevellum, the genial Callington lawyer, who al- 
ways takes such a lively interest in every movement 
— commercial, religious, and educational — that has 
anything of the element of progress in it. He is 
standing in the center of a group of friends and 
chatting in his usual genial and animated manner 
with those around him, pausing now and then to 
shake hands with a newcomer when there was an 
addition to the party by the arrival of the parish 
gravedigger, John Penseppelker. 

I must describe John. He was a man of average 
height and size, with a round, pleasant face with a 
fringe of dark-brown whiskers, and a certain merry 
twinkle in his eyes, which seemed to indicate as 
plainly as visual organs could that there was a reply, 
and a suitable one, ready on hand for any one who 
tried either a playful jest or a sarcastic taunt at John. 
John’s trousers were always, at least in working 
hours, either tied or buckled below the knee, and he 
walked with a slight limp and a somewhat stiff, 
dragging movement, as though he was always try- 


II2 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


ing to disengage his feet from the soft mold at 
the bottom of a grave. 

Mark Tapley describes gravedigging as ‘‘a damp, 
wormy, good sort of a business,’' and further declares 
his opinion that a man deserves some credit who can 
be jolly as a gravedigger. The “damp, wormy” nature 
of his calling may account partly for his lameness; 
for gravedigging and roadrepairing in all weathers 
induce rheumatism and, by a natural sequence, pro- 
duce lameness. John was certainly “jolly,” and as 
he had probably never heard of Mark Tapley I 
think it is just possible he may have learned it from 
the Apostle Paul, who had “learned” in whatever 
state he was, therewith to be content. 

John may have, at some period of his history, 
exchanged an angry word with some one of his 
fellow-men ; but as such an event is not recorded in 
history I hold it as being open to serious doubt. 
John loved God; he loved the “Bible Christian” 
Chapel, of which he was an active member. I can 
recall the sound of John’s voice echoing around the 
walls of the little sanctuary; for John prayed “with 
the spirit, and with the understanding also.” John 
loved his fellow-man, and it is said that there was a 
time when John loved strong drink; but as I well 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


remember John and I were elected members of the 
committee of the first temperance society established 
in St. Dominic, this must be an ancient tradition. 

John held the position of working foreman of 
the parish roads, and, in connection with his duties 
of sexton, there devolved upon him the duty of toll- 
ing the bell for service at the parish church and 
sundry other matters appertaining to the Anglican 
service, so that John’s time on Sundays was divided 
pretty equally between ''church” and "chapel.” 

To return to my story. As Mr. Penseppelker 
approached the group outside the chapel-gate he 
was greeted by Mr. Trevellum with a hearty "How 
are you, John ?” And as the hard hand of the sexton 
closed on the soft fingers of the man of briefs and 
writs the latter thrust his disengaged hand into his 
pocket and withdrew it remarking: "By the by, 
John, here is a letter which it is important should 
be posted this evening. Would you oblige me by 
taking it to the post-office ? You will catch the mail 
and get back in time for tea.” 

"Sartenly ! By all means ! Thank ’ee, sir,” re- 
plied John, taking the letter and dropping the silver 
sixpence the lawyer handed him into his pocket, 
and, turning, he hurried up the road. 

8 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


114 

I have stated that the people of St. Dominic, 
with few exceptions, were keeping holiday. One of 
the exceptions was a lady, Mrs. Pencrozier, who 
represented the extreme High Church party in the 
parish. The bitter feelings this lady entertained 
toward Dissenters had been intensified during the 
past two years. It was bad enough while they wor- 
shiped in the old tumble-down looking building at 
Haye; but now they had shown a decidedly ag- 
gressive spirit by erecting an elegant, commodious 
structure near the center of the parish and nearer 
the ''parish church.” Several of the "best families” 
in the parish were either directly or indirectly asso- 
ciated with the movement, and, worse still, s© much 
did the spirit of harmony and friendliness pervade 
all classes and religious denominations that any extra 
movement on the part of either denomination always 
called forth the practical sympathy of the members 
of all the others, so that on an occasion like this 
there were nearly as many "church” as "chapel” 
people present. This spirit of union suited Mrs. 
Pencrozier very well, so long as it drew the non- 
conformists to patronize the "church” festivals ; 
but how any conscientious member of the Anglican 
communion could patronize those "synagogues of 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


115 

Satan,” as she flatteringly designated the dissenting 
churches, was past her comprehension. 

Do not blame Mrs. Pencrozier too harshly. 
Some of the best, the noblest, and most earnest souls 
the world has ever produced have been the most 
bitterly intolerant. It was not cold-hearted indif- 
ference that prompted ^‘St.” Bernard to perse- 
cute the Abbot Abelard of St. Gildas de Rhuys for 
supposed heresy in the way he did, or Luther to 
speak and act so harshly as he did at the Conference 
of the Marburg toward his brother reformer 
Zwingli ; or the Protestant Church at Geneva to 
condemn Servetus to the stake. Excessive zeal for 
God, wrongly directed, has led men into some 
strange and terrible extremes. It had been a busy 
day with Mrs. Pencrozier. She had been traveling 
around the parish, endeavoring to point out to the 
'‘faithful” the danger they were incurring personally, 
and the evil they were countenancing by encourag- 
ing by their presence and support those enemies 
of the "church” to undermine her walls and break 
down her bulwarks. 

She had been reproving, exhorting, persuading, 
and, in some cases, even commanding, but had met 
with scant success. She had been received politely, 


Ii6 real life sketches. 

been listened to deferentially; but had noticed with 
somewhat of heart-sinking and misgiving that those 
toward whom her efforts were directed had but 
faint ideas of complying with her wishes or obey- 
ing her commands ; but that preparations for attend- 
ing the school opening were going on all over the 
parish. She was returning rather disheartened from 
her round of visits, walking along with her head bent 
and a thick veil drawn over her face, meditating 
deeply on the perversity and obtuseness of mankind 
in general and St. Dominic people in particular, 
when her attention was drawn to a heavy footstep 
rather hurriedly approaching her, and, raising her 
eyes, recognized John Penseppelker. The knees of 
his trousers were untied, and his best coat and 
clean shirt indicated that John was neither on grave- 
digging or road-mending business, but keeping holi- 
day. 

^‘Well, John,” she asked, rather anxiously; “and 
where are you going?” 

“Down to the Wesleyan chapel, mum,” replied 
John. 

“Why, John !” she exclaimed ; “you do n’t really 
mean to say that you are going to this-^this — ^this 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


117 

meeting-house school-opening, or what they call it: 
do you?” 

'‘Ees, I be, mum,” replied John. ‘‘That’s just 
where I ’m a-goin’.” 

“Well, John ! I should have thought you would 
be the last man in the parish who would go to a 
place like that.” 

“Well, mum!” was John’s comforting reply. “I 
reckon I he; I believe they ’m all gone, and I ’m 
about the laast.” And John hurried on. 

Half an hour later John Penseppelker and Mr. 
Trevellum were drinking tea and eating saffron- 
cake and “toughs” in the new schoolroom, while 
Mrs. Pencrozier, in the quiet retirement of her par- 
lor, was reading the affecting and instructive nar- 
rative of Mrs. Partington’s heroic efforts to keep 
back the waves of the Atlantic with her broom. 


SKETCH XI. 


Jim Pb;ngobbi,^m"s Pasty; or^ The Strike at 
Wheae Maria. 

Whoever has met a married Cornishman in 
Europe, Asia, Africa, America, or anywhere else 
on this sublunary terraqueous globe, has made the 
acquaintance of a Cornishman’s pasty. I venture 
to assert that ninety-nine out of every hundred Cor- 
nishmen going to their work to-morrow morning 
will be carrying a pasty for dinner, and the other will 
have a hot one for his supper. There is not a house- 
wife between the Tamar and Land’s End but has in 
her time made scores of potato-pasties, turnip-pasties, 
apple-pasties, blackberry-pasties, egg-pasties, onion- 
pasties, ^‘squab”-pasties, and “hundred-to-one”- 
pasties. The latter is composed of one hundred 
pieces of potato to one piece of meat. Strange things 
have found their way into pasties. There was Dick 
Trenagger, for instance. Dick was a platelayer 

ii8 


on 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


119 

the Cornwall Railway, and one night he so far 
forgot his manliness as to beat his wife, using for 
the purpose his leather belt. Next morning the belt 
was missing, but the day after, at noon, Dick found 
it in his pasty — buckle and all. Dick went home 
that night, breathing out threatenings and slaughter 
against women who could find nothing more whole- 
some and digestible than leather belts to make pas- 
ties of ; but found to his dismay that Mrs. Trenag- 
ger was ahead of him, and Dick had to eat “humble 
pie” before he could enjoy her company again; and 
the belt-pasty, though rather indigestible, was, after 
all, the most wholesome meal that could be provided 
for Dick in his present mood. 

There are few Cornishmen who have reached 
middle age or passed it but remember the great 
miners^ strike of 1866; but perhaps there are few 
who have heard of the important part that Jim Pen- 
gobblem’s pasty played in it. The miners at that 
time had grievances of long standing and extremely 
hard to endure. How they bore them so long is a 
mystery; but the Cornish miner is a patient, long- 
suffering man, and keeps pegging away until his 
work is accomplished and his goal reached. Among 
those grievances was the “five-week month” system. 


120 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


which means this, that men worked by the lunar 
and were paid by the calendar month, so that at 
certain periods a man would actually work five weeks 
for four weeks’ pay. Then again, in the event of a 
mine closing down, or “knocking,” the men would 
only get paid after other claims were settled. I 
once heard a miner say he had worked that year 
four months, for which, up to that time, he had re- 
ceived no pay, and it was quite uncertain whether 
he ever would. Then again they were subject to 
the tyranny and oppression of the bosses, or “cap- 
’ns,” many of them, unfortunately, hard-handed, 
foul-mouthed upstarts, whose chief aim in life ap- 
peared to be to curry favor with their superiors 
and make themselves thoroughly and cordially hated 
by the men, boys, and girls under their charge. 
Many of those grievances have within the last twenty 
years been removed by the “Metalliferous Mines 
Act,” a measure introduced into Parliament by Mr. 
Conybeare, M. P. for the Cambonne or Mining Di- 
vision of Cornwall. ^ 

It was in the early part of 1866 that the agitation 
in favor of a removal of those grievances reached 
its height; and in most of the mining centers there 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


I2I 


was considerable excitement, and in some places 
(Cambonne for one) actual rioting took place. I 
well remember one morning in March, 1866. It 
was a sharp, frosty morning, and there was just 
such an eastwind coming across the Tamar as used 
to make St. Dominic people say that the Dartmoor 
farmers had left their field-gates open. I was stand- 
ing on the rooks overhanging the Tamar near 
Cothele. The market steamers had just disappeared 
around the bend in the river, when a large govern- 
ment steamer hove in sight, with her deck crowded 
with red-coats. There was very soon a considerable 
crowd of people on the oreyard at Cothele, and 
there was just a little excitement and a very con- 
siderable amount of curiosity manifested. 

It was the monthly “pay-day’’ at Devon Great 
Consols or “Wheal Maria,” as it was locally desig- 
nated, and rumors had been current in the neighbor- 
hood for some days that a serious disturbance was 
imminent. Among other rumors of trouble I re- 
member seeing a paragraph in the Western Morn- 
ing News to the effect that one of the “cap’ns” at 
Devon Great Consols on taking his rounds under- 
ground had seen a miniature coffin made in clay and 


122 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


marked with his initials, which the said *‘cap’n,” 
possibly conscience-stricken, had taken as a pre- 
monition of his impending doom. 

When the steamer I have mentioned above 
moored alongside the ore yard, it was found that the 
men on board of her were two companies, one hun- 
dred and eighty men, of the Eighty-fifth Regiment, 
now the First Battalion, Second Shropshire Light 
Infantry. They had but a few weeks previously re- 
turned from New Zealand, where they had been en- 
gaged in suppressing the Maori insurrection. An- 
other detachment of the same regiment had been sent 
around to Tavistock by train, in order to support, if 
necessary, about three hundred men of the Devon 
and Cornwall police and special constables. Among 
them was the writer’s brother, at that time a mem- 
ber of the Devon County constabulary. 

‘‘How far have we to march this morning?” I 
heard one of the soldiers ask a man who was stand- 
ing on the quay. 

“O, about vour or vive miles or zo,” was the^ 
reply. 

“What are we here for?” was the next question. 

“Why, you-’rn goin’ up tu Wheal Mariar tu shet 
zum miners, I believe, but you must mind what 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


123 

you Vn about , ’cause they miners be desperate fel- 
lers.” 

Just at this moment the order to “fall in” was 
given, and the soldiers started on their march to 
“Wheal Mariar” to shoot the miners. 

But they did not shoot miners or any one else. 
All day the people in Gunnislake Albaston, St. Ann’s 
Chapel, Chilsworthy, and Latchey waited and lis- 
tened for the sound of firing and the other sounds 
connected with war; but that pay-day at Devon 
Great Consols passed off apparently as many pre- 
vious ones had passed off. The four or five hundred 
men, boys, and girls went up to the “count-house,” 
took their pay, and quietly dispersed, and about dusk 
the military, with their cartridge-boxes unopened, 
and their bayonets unstained, re-embarked on board 
the Scotia and steamed down the river. 

There was, however, some little suppressed ex- 
citement and a considerable amount of unsuppressed 
fun in Gunnislake that night, and for its cause we 
must go back a few days. I have mentioned a para- 
graph in the Western Morning News relating to a 
miniature coffin. The day before this item appeared 
Cap’n Polrushem, one of the underground “cap- 
’ns” at Wheal Maria, in a state of great excitement 


124 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


and without waiting to change his underground 
clothes, ran breathlessly into the counting-house, 
almost scaring Cap’n Treesy, who was sitting at 
his table writing. Now Cap’n Polrushem had 
the reputation of being the most thoroughly hated 
of all the “cap’ns” on the mine. He appeared to 
be a combination of all the qualities which go to 
make up a bad “cap’n,’" that is, on the mine; off 
the mine, he was like many of his class, genial and 
affable enough. He appeared to keep all his nasti- 
ness for the men over whom he exercised authority. 

The men repaid him by sullen obedience to his 
orders, and muttered curses behind his back. Some- 
times on quitting a level or a ‘"stope” where he had 
been overlooking a pair of men, he would turn sud- 
denly to see a fist shaking in his direction, which 
did not serve in the least to soothe his temper. 
Sometimes he would come on to a pair of men just 
sitting down to take their *'crib,’^ their pasties in 
their hands or on a pile of rocks beside them, and 
make some bitter sarcastic remark by way of help- 
ing their digestion. 

Polrushem knew he was hated, and like all petty 
tyrants and bullies the consciousness that he de- 
served it filled him with considerable uneasiness and 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


125 


alarm, and not only led him to misconstrue words 
and actions which would otherwise have passed un- 
noticed, but also to scent danger where none ex- 
isted. 

It was with considerable trepidation that he went 
underground that morning, and, as I have said, it 
was in a state of great consternation that he came 
to '‘grass” and rushed into the counting-house. 

"Why, Polrushem, what on earth ’s the matter?” 
were the first words that greeted him. 

"Matter! matter! There’s trouble, Treesy, and 
going to be.” 

"Why, what ’s up now ? Any of the men been 
sending you to Halifax, Jericho, Flanders, or cer- 
tain unmentionable regions? You remember, Pol- 
rushem, that when Owen Glendower told his friend 
Hotspur that he could call spirits from the vasty 
deep. Hotspur told him that for that matter he or 
any other man could do the same. The difficulty 
was to get them to come. Now, Polrushem, if those 
fellows consign you to any of the places I have men- 
tioned, you are not by any means bound to go. You 
are cap’n down there, you know.” 

"Now, Treesy, I do n’t want any of your non- 
sense. So long as you can lead the choir at Ogbeer 


126 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


Chapel and recite Shakespeare at Gunnislake Mu- 
tual Improvement Society, you do n’t care two 
straws for what other men have to face every day of 
their lives. You get along so quiet and easy with 
your men that you have no idea what I encounter 
every time I go underground. If you — ” 

*‘If I treated my men like you act by yours,” 
replied Treesy ; but not wishing to rouse his friend’s 
temper he checked himself and quietly asked, “But 
what is the trouble now, Polrushem ?” 

“Well, Treesy, you know Pengobblem?” 

“Certainly.” 

“Well, Pengobblem and Tredigger are tributing 
in the same level. Pengobblem declares they are 
working for starvation wages.” 

“At any rate,” interrupted Treesy, “he does not 
bring a starvation pasty for his crib. I saw a dia- 
gram of this pasty chalked on the ‘sump-house’ door 
the other day, drawn according to scale. I thought 
the dimensions were rather startling. I have heard 
suggestions that he should borrow Tregroaner’s bass 
viol bag to stow it in, and also that it should be sent 
down to him in a sling or in the kibble.” 

“Yes, and you may have noticed that sometimes 
his pasty is wrapped in a piece of Reynolds’s news- 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


127 

paper. That ’s an indication of his mental procliv- 
ities,” replied Polrushem.” 

“But this is not a question of a pasty, but a 
coMn'* he continued, “and a coffin means death, and 
death under those circumstances means murder, and 
murder under these circumstances means a breach 
of the peace, and a breach of the peace means a riot-, 
and a riot must be quelled by the civil power, and if 
the civil power is not sufficient then the military 
must be called to its aid; and as next Saturday is 
pay-day we must be prepared. So I am off to Tavis- 
tock to report the whole case to Captain Treleadin, 
and he, of course, must act accordingly.” 

So without waiting to hear a word of expostula- 
tion from Treesy, Polrushem hastily changed his 
clothes and hurried off to Tavistock. 

On the evening of the pay-day my brother, hav- 
ing obtained leave of absence for a few hours, came 
through Gunnislake on his way home. Knots of 
men, many of them Wheal Maria men, were stand- 
ing around the corners discussing the situation, es- 
pecially some comical phase of it, in which one 
broad-shouldered, open-faced miner appeared to take 
a special interest. 

On approaching this group he was recognized 


128 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


as one of the Devonshire policemen, and there passed 
a little playful chaff, into which my brother entered 
most heartily, being more anxious to view the mat- 
ter in its ludicrous than in its more serious aspect, 
so addressing the big, broad-shouldered man, who 
was no other than Tredigger, he said : 

“Well, what was the cause of all this trouble to- 
day, and what do you fellows mean by making all 
this row?” 

“I ’ll tell’ee, policeman,” replied Tredigger; “you 
know Cap’n Jeremiah Polrushem is n’t very well 
liked at Wheal Maria, and he knows it. Lately he 
has been terribly nervous, and since that row down 
to Cambonne he seems to be more suspicious of us 
than ever, so we ’ve hardly been able to speak among 
ourselves when he has been around, but what he 
has been listenin’ and watchin’. Now, my com- 
rade, Jim Pengobblem is a terrible feller to act, and 
always brings a tremenjis gurt pasty vor es crib. 
’T was laast Tuesday he broft es pasty as usual. 
We ’re forenoon 'core’ this week, Jim and me, so 
Jim put ’es pasty on a pile of rocks. Now Jim’s 
pasty is always marked 'J. P.,’ and 'J. P.’ means 
'Jim Pengobblem’ an’ Jeremiah Polrushem. So 
when Cap’n Polrushem come underground an’ sees 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


129 


this pasty marked 'J- P-/ he thoft ’twas a coffin 
intended vor hisself, so away he tears up to grass, 
sends off vor sojers an’ pullis’men an’ magistrates 
an’ special constables an’ all sich traade. Now I 
know one thing. Jim’s pasty was just big enough 
for a man to get into ; but I ’m sartin’, Mister, ’t was 
a pasty an’ not a coffin that scared Cap’n Pol- 
rushem, and perhaps ’t was his conscience that scared 
’en as much as anything.” 

9 


SKETCH XIL 


The Quack Doctor. 

No BOOK containing sketches of real life in 
Devon and Cornwall would be complete without 
some reference to that very clever, extremely pop- 
ular, and rather eccentric physician. Dr. Budd, 
who was at the height of his popularity between 
thirty-five and forty-five years ago. In fact, for a 
period extending over thirty years he enjoyed the 
distinction of being one of the leading medical men 
in the west of England. He has been described as a 
man of fine physique, possessing a powerful frame 
with a droll sense of humor, which expressed itself 
sometimes in a most unexpected and startling man- 
ner. I am not aware that the incident connected 
with the quack doctor has ever been published, but 
I trust I shall not be considered guilty of plagiarism 
if I relate one or two other stories of Dr. Budd 
which were published about twelve or more years 
ago in Doidge’s “Western Counties Annual.’^ One 
130 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


131 

of those stories illustrates the genuine kindliness of 
Dr. Budd’s disposition. The other is an illustration 
of another of his characteristics; namely, a certain 
bluff, off-handed, rough-and-ready way he had of 
treating those who came to him with imaginary ail- 
ments. Both cases show his fertility of resource in 
cases requiring prompt action. It is well known in 
Plymouth that Dr. Budd, while charging heavily for 
his services where money was plentiful, was most 
kind and assiduous in his attentions to his poorer 
patients, in many cases not only giving his services 
free of charge, but also giving liberally to relieve 
their other necessities. I give the following story 
on the authority above quoted, as near as I can re- 
member it: On one occasion Dr. Budd was called 
to see a poor man occupying with his wife and fam- 
ily a single room in a tenement-house in one of the 
back streets of the town. On arriving at the house 
he found the man lying in bed suffering from quinsy, 
which on examination he found was rapidly reaching 
an acute stage. He made no remarks to the patient 
respecting his condition ; but turning to the woman 
he asked her if she knew how to make an apple- 
dumpling. On being answered in the affirmative, 
he handed her half a sovereign, with the remark: 


132 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


“Well, make a good lot by to-morrow this time. I 
intend to bring a friend here to dinner to-morrow, 
and as we are both very fond of apple-dumplings 
you need not trouble about getting anything else.” 
It may easily be imagined that he left the couple, 
the woman especially, in a rather mystified frame of 
mind. However, the next day promptly on time 
Dr. Budd arrived, accompanied by his coachman. 
Proceeding to the bedside of the patient, he found 
the quinsy had reached just the stage he expected 
it would have. His first act was to prop the man up 
in his bed, so that he could see what was going on in 
the room. Then he inquired if the apple-dumplings 
were ready. The woman replied by removing a cloth 
from a dish, displaying a tempting pile of delicious- 
looking dumplings. Then tucking his pocket hand- 
kerchief carefully over his shirt-front, he called to 
his coachman, “Come, John, sit up to table.” John 
had no sooner done so than the doctor, picking up 
a dumpling from the dish, threw it across the table 
at him. John replied with the remark that two could 
play at that game, and retaliated by throwing one at 
his master. This was too much for the patient’s 
gravity. A loud, hearty laugh followed, and the 
quinsy was broken. The doctor’s object was at- 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


133 

tained, and the man was soon in a fair way of re- 
covery. 

One day a carriage stopped at the doctor’s door, 
from which there alighted a lady accompanied by 
her son, a thin, pale, delicate, attentuated-looking 
youth of about seventeen. On being shown into the 
study the lady explained the cause of her visit. Her 
son was in a weak, low condition ; was incapable of 
taking any exercise ; had no appetite whatever, even 
for the richest and choicest delicacies that could be 
procured. Could Dr. Budd do anything for him? 
The lady was Mrs. Pensopht, who resided some- 
where up in mid-Devon, and her son. Master Hono- 
rius Pensopht, bore out her opening statement, at 
the same time looking anxiously at the doctor. 

Dr. Budd produced his stethoscope, and a few 
minutes’ examination convinced him the boy was as 
sound as a bell ; in fact, that there was nothing what- 
ever wrong with him but overindulgence. He did 
not say so, however ; but turning to the lady he said 
gravely : ‘T do not think it is by any means a hope- 
less case, madam. Leave him here with me for a 
few weeks. Call again about two weeks from to- 
day. I am morally certain you will see an improve- 
ment. Fifteen guineas. Thank you, madam,” and 


134 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


Mrs. Pensopht, greatly relieved in mind and slightly 
relieved in pocket, entered her carriage and drove 
off. Dr. Budd then went into the kitchen and gave 
some directions to the cook. Half an hour later he 
returned to the study and invited Master Pensopht 
into the dining-room. Here, to Master Honorius’s 
surprise, was an immense fat and lean mutton-chop, 
a plate full of bread, and four or five boiled potatoes, 
all fresh and steaming from the hands of the cook. 
A delicious meal for a thoroughly hungry man ; but 
not exactly suited to an invalid who could scarcely 
touch “the choicest delicacies.’' 

“Now, Master Pensopht,” said the doctor, “sit 
down and eat.” 

“Doctah,” protested the young man, “I can not 
pothibly touch that. Pothitively, doctah, I can not 
eat mutton !” 

For reply. Dr. Budd went to the corner of the 
room, and producing a silver-headed riding-whip of 
business-like proportions he approached the youth, 
with the firm but polite intimation that unless the 
mutton, bread, and potatoes were safely stowed in 
his interior within a reasonable time the said whip 
would be applied to his exterior. 

A glance at that resolute face mounted on one 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


135 


hundred and ninety pounds avoirdupois of medical 
faculty convinced Master Honorius Pensopht that 
implicit obedience was by far the wisest course, so 
with many a reluctant twitch and many a sly back- 
ward glance at the riding-whip the meal went on, 
and when the last piece of fat, the last potato, and 
the final crumb had become part and parcel of Mas- 
ter Pensopht’s anatomy, the latter was greeted with 
a hearty “Well done, young man! That's better." 
“Now," continued the doctor, “I have to visit a 
patient who lives some distance out of town. I want 
you to go with me." They were soon seated in the 
doctor's open carriage, and a drive of about four or 
five miles brought them to their destination. 

“Now, Mr. Pensopht," said the doctor, “step 
out and take a short walk while I see my patient." 

Fifteen minutes later the doctor returned, and 
entering his carriage called out to the rather dis- 
concerted Honorius, who was a few yards away: 
“Now, Mr. Pensopht, you can walk back to town. 
Never mind your overcoat; 1 11 take that in my car- 
riage. Dinner will be on the table at six. Drive on, 
John," and the worthy doctor drove off, leaving 
Master Honorius Pensopht, who had scarcely been 
out of doors for over six months, with four or five 


136 rbal life sketches . 

miles of Devonshire road between him and a meal of 
possibly one and a half pounds of mutton and four 
Chagford kidney potatoes, with riding-whip by way 
of relish. 

That evening about six o’clock the doctor and 
his patient were seated at a table where roast beef, 
etc., was being consumed with hearty relish by both 
gentlemen, the riding-whip reposing in the corner. 
Apple-dumplings formed the desert, applied inter- 
nally, of course. A cold bath at six followed in the 
morning, and a substantial breakfast at eight. An- 
other drive, another walk, so the treatment went on 
day after day, and when Mrs. Pensopht called to see 
her darling two weeks later she scarcely knew him. 
Not a pill, not a drop of physic, but plenty of fresh 
air, solid food, and exercise, and Master Honorius 
Pensopht was completely cured. 

It was in the early fall of either ’64 or ’65 that 
the celebrated quack “Dr.” Fitzdosem made his 
appearance in Callington market. I remember him 
to this day, as he appeared with his frock coat, white 
vest, and silk hat, standing on a box in the center of 
the market. In front of him was a stand covered 
with bottles, pill boxes, etc. On his right and some- 
what behind him was a canvas containing a picture 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


137 


of a man, his right side clothed with flesh and a sol- 
dier's uniform, the left side a skeleton. Whether the 
poor man had been reduced to that condition by 
taking Fitzdosem's pills is not stated. He was ac- 
companied by an assistant, one Mr. Treliar, whose 
duty it was to read out imaginary testimonials as 
to the efflcacy of Fitzdosem's nostrums, one of which 
was his celebrated “Compound Tincture of Fixuup- 
sicum." 

I remember a woman, evidently a farmer’s wife, 
walking up the market with a basket of butter on 
her arm. She looked rather pale and tired; but 
Fitzdosem marked her for a customer, and addressed 
her with “Woman, you ’re ill.” 

“N-no, sir,” came the rather hesitating reply. 
“I ’m pretty well, thankee, sir.” 

“Woman! Do you not after some violent ex- 
ertion, such as running rapidly upstairs for instance, 
experience a rapid beat, beat, beat of the heart 
against your side?” 

“I-I think I do, sir, sometimes,” was the an- 
swer. 

“Does not that prove,” shouted the quack, “that 
your vital organ is in a state of palpitation? That 
there is a rapid expansion and contraction of the 


138 real life sketches. 

pericardium, which will ultimately result in a de- 
terioration of that organ. In addition to this, have 
you not other symptoms? For instance, I have no 
doubt that you break your fast early, as early as 
seven o’clock. After several hours spent in domestic 
activities, do you not experience a sinking feeling 
and a sense of weakness in the region of the 
stomach ?” 

“I think I do, sir,” was the reply. 

^'Does not that symptom prove that your digest- 
ive and assimilative organs are in a condition of 
abnormal activity, requiring a consumption, yes, a 
consumption of everything edible and digestible?” 

‘‘I dare say you know, sir.” 

“Of course, I know. Treliar, read those testi- 
monials — that woman at Monkey’s Castle* in Devon- 
shire who was cured of those very symptoms by one 
bottle of ‘Compound Tincture of Fixuupsicum.’ 
This wonderful medicine, ladies and gentlemen, 
which is worth a guinea a bottle, and which I am 
offering at the paltry sum of half a crown, has been 
known to produce the following wonderful results: 
Three doses have caused a complete and final cessa- 
tion of the operation of the digestive and assimi- 


*The name of a place in Bereferris Parish. 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


139 


lative organs ; have effected a permanent suspension 
of the functions of the right auricle, the right ven- 
tricle, the left auricle and ventricle of the vital organ 
resulting in that abnormally healthy physical con- 
dition known as the ^rigor mortis/ My friend, Mr. 
Treliar can furnish you with any number of well- 
attested instances of this kind. Two shillings and 
sixpence. Thank you, madam! Now, ladies and 
gentlemen I” and so on. Mr. Fitzdosem’s experi- 
ence corresponded with that of another celebrated 
charlatan who declared that “The medicine took 
the people, the people took the medicine, and he took 
the money, so all were satisfied. It cured their 
purses of a plethora, and his of a galloping con- 
sumption.’’ 

As weeks passed on Mr. Fitzdosem, emboldened 
by his success, began to launch out and take greater 
and still greater liberties with the qualified medical 
profession. One day while expatiating on the merits 
of his Compound Tincture of Fixuupsicum, he in- 
troduced the name of Dr. Budd. “Yes, ladies and 
gentlemen, this case had baffled the skill of the great- 
est physician in the West of England. Dr. Budd 
had been treating this case, but his treatment had 
signally failed. Then the poor, hopeless sufferer, 


140 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


having heard the fame of my comp — At this 
point there came an interruption. Dr. Budd had 
been standing within a few yards of the quack, lis- 
tening with an amused expression to his rigmarole. 
At the mention of his name, however, he interfered. 
Taking Mr. Fitzdosem by the collar, he administered 
a kick which upset that gentleman, the half-clothed 
skeleton, and Mr. Treliar, sending medicine bottles 
and pill boxes flying in all directions. It also upset 
the gravity of the crowd which quickly gathered, 
who cheered lustily as kick followed kick in rapid 
and regular succession, down through the crowded 
market, past butchers' stalls, butter stalls, fruit stalls, 
clothing stalls, confectionery stalls, and Jasper's 
bread and cake stall. Kick, kick, kick, kick, kick, 
one final kick nearly landed him into Mr. Martin 
Body's draper's shop, or as we should say, ‘Mry- 
goods store," across the street. Dr. Budd had added 
to his popularity by effecting one more decided cure, 
and ‘‘Dr." Fitzdosem, Mr. Treliar, and the ‘‘Com- 
pound Tincture of Fixuupsicum" became matters of 
tradition and history. 


SKETCH XIIL 


The Press Gang. 

During the eighteenth century and the early 
years of the nineteenth England was almost con- 
tinually at war with one nation or another. It has 
been estimated that in the one hundred years end- 
ing in 1790 nearly one million British soldiers and 
sailors were slain in battle, and the question natu- 
rally arises, How were our armies and fleets re- 
cruited? To this can be given a threefold answer: 
First. Men fired with martial ardor or genuine pa- 
triotism volunteered to serve their king and country 
in wars, whether righteous or unrighteous, without 
counting the cost. Second. Men in the depths of 
poverty or under the influence of liquor would listen 
to the stories of pleasure and comfort and glory 
associated with a soldier’s life as told by a recruiting 
sergeant, and take the king’s shilling, to wake up 
later on to its stern and disagreeable realities; and. 
Third. By a system of impressment, both for the 
141 


142 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


army and navy, which entailed untold suffering and 
misery on individuals and families. Recruiting of- 
ficers, failing to secure a sufficient number by the 
regular and legitimate means of persuasion, were 
authorized to patrol the country and seize any va- 
grants or able-bodied men having no visible means 
of subsistence and march them off to be trans- 
formed into soldiers or sailors to maintain the honor 
of the country and the dignity of the crown on dis- 
tant seas or foreign fields. Homeward bound mer- 
chant ships were overhauled when nearing port, and 
men who had been absent from their families for 
perhaps two or three years would be seized within 
sight of their homes and forced on board a man-of- 
war, to be killed in some sanguinary seafight a few 
weeks later. To such an extent was this carried 
that as many as one thousand men have been im- 
pressed on the river Thames in one night. 

Some of John Wesley’s itinerant preachers were 
‘‘pressed” while traveling through the country ; not- 
ably John Nelson, who asserted his rights of 
“Roman” citizenship with such energy as compelled 
his captors to liberate him. When the life of a sailor 
on a man-of-war of that period is taken into consid- 
eration we do not wonder at the necessity of resort- 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


143 


ing to impressment to keep up the requisite strength 
of the navy. Low pay; food supplied by rapacious 
contractors, deficient in quantity and horrible in 
quality ; the tyranny exercised over the men by 
young and often inefficient officers, added to the risks 
of storm and battle; the wounds dressed by the 
clumsy rough-and-ready surgery of the time before 
the discovery of anaesthetics, — were not, by any 
means a brilliant inducement to men who could find 
any other means of earning a livelihood. 

Nor were the inducements to enter the army of 
a whit more tempting character. Those who lis- 
tened to the blandishments of the beribboned re- 
cruiting sergeant very soon discovered that the 
‘^service’’ was not exactly what he had painted it. 
Flogging amounting in some cases to three hundred 
lashes was administered for the most trivial oflfenses, 
and in many cases men died under the infliction or 
from its immediate eifects. Any one who has read 
the vivid discriptions of seaman’s life at this period, 
as given by Smollett or Marryatt, shudders as he 
thinks of the terrible scenes that have been witnessed 
on board those old wooden walls now lying in the 
Thames, at Portsmouth, and in Devonport Harbor, 
and ceases to wonder that strong measures had to be 


144 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


resorted to to compel free-born Englishmen to enter 
on such a life. And strange to say, it was men who 
were procured by this means who followed Clive at 
Plassey and laid the foundation of our Indian Em- 
pire ; who accompanied Wolfe to the Plains of Abra- 
ham, fought De Grasse in the West Indies who 
sailed under Howe and Duncan, Jervis and Nelson, 
and secured the supremacy of the seas at Camper- 
down, St. Vincent, the Nile, and Trafalgar; and the 
question is asked, Why? To this, also, a threefold 
answer might be given. First, the indomitable pluck 
and energy of the Anglo-Saxon race; second, the 
fact that their adversaries’ armies and fleets were 
recruited by means scarcely less questionable; and, 
third, the evident design of Providence to overrule 
men’s crimes and blunders for the advancement of 
the human race. 

It may readily be supposed that resistance of a 
most strenuous kind was often made to the press- 
gang, as for instance, when the crew of a privateer 
in the Thames successfully beat off the press-gang 
who attempted to board her, and the man in Wilt- 
shire, who fatally stabbed one of the party who 
tried to drag him from his bed in the middle of the 
night. 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


145 


Captain Marryatt, in 'Teter Simple,” relates 
how the press-gang, on entering a public-house in 
Portsmouth, found the narrow passage blocked by 
the stout landlady, who, armed with a spit, advanced 
upon the party and caused the lieutenant in charge 
to retire in such precipitation as to fall over one or 
two of the men behind him, the landlady mean- 
while shouting to her servant: '‘Now, Martha, you 
let those men out at the back, while I keep these fel- 
lers off here.” And on the same evening at another 
public-house, Peter, in the course of the struggle, 
became separated from his party and got locked in 
a room. He afterward heard one lady exclaim: 
“Well ! They Ve got my man ; but I ’ve got this 
’ere little midshipmite instead.” The story tells how 
Peter could only escape from his awkward and 
rather undignified predicament by disbursing all his 
available cash in order that drinks might be sup- 
plied all round. 

There is a tradition also that “The Sailor King” 
himself was the object on one occasion of the well- 
meaning attentions of the press-gang. The story, 
which I heard many years ago from an old sailor, is 
to this effect. When William IV, as Duke of Clar- 
ence, was a lieutenant in the royal navy he was 

lO 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


146 

prevented, on account of his rank, from witnessing 
personally the working of the system. He deter- 
mined, however, thoroughly to investigate the mat- 
ter. Accordingly one evening, when the press- 
gangs were to be out, he went on shore, and, care- 
fully disguising himself, proceeded to one of the low 
public-houses where merchant seamen resorted, and 
asked the landlord for a private room, expressing 
great fear of the press-gang and begging his host on 
no account to make it known that he had a merchant 
sailor in the house. Having obtained a room he 
bolted and barricaded the door and prepared to 
await developments. 

He had not long to wait. As he expected, an 
officer and a party of men were soon at the door of 
the house, demanding admittance. 

“Have you any likely men about, landlord?” 
was the usual question. 

“Yes,” was the reply. “One fine, likely fellow. 
First door at the head of the stairs.” 

Up came the officer, followed by his men, and 
demanded admittance in the king’s name, which was 
indignantly refused. They then proceeded to force 
an entrance, and the worthy lieutenant, on entering 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


147 


the room, was met by a tremendous blow on the 
chest, which sent him over the stairs on a pile of 
sailors. To recover themselves and return to the 
charge was the work of a moment. Crowding into 
the room, a desparate struggle ensued, at the close 
of which a bruised and bleeding crowd of royal-naval 
seamen emerged from the house, half dragging, half 
carrying a desperate and indignant royal duke. Ar- 
rived at the water front another fight took place, in 
which the lieutenant came in for his share of ducal 
favors. Arriving on board the "‘tender,’’ the pris- 
oner was placed in irons and confined in a cell to 
await his trial by court-martial and an initiatory flog- 
ging the following morning. On stripping him, 
however, his identity was discovered, and the sys- 
tem and those who carried out its provisions were 
sternly denounced by the prince, who declared his 
intention to do his best to abolish it altogether, or, 
at any rate, to impose such restrictions upon it as 
to prevent such flagrant abuse of power. 

Whatever truth there may be in the story, it is 
certain that his efforts to ameliorate the condition of 
the men among whom he spent so many years made 
him extremely popular in the royal navy, so that 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


148 

the name of “King Billy” is held in reverence to 
this day. There are two press-gang stories current 
in East Cornwall which are worth repeating. 

Limits were placed to the sphere of their opera- 
tions, and Saltash was their limit on the Tamar. 
If they ventured above Saltash they did so at their 
own risk and had to take the consequences. On one 
occasion a party ventured up as far as Calstock 
and seized a man belonging to a schooner lying there. 
Returning down the river they were pursued by an 
angry crowd along the river bank until they arrived 
under the jutting cliff known as Kelly Rock, on 
which the Ashburton Hotel now stands. Here a 
great stone was hurled into the boat, which broke 
the arm of the officer in charge and knocked a hole 
in the bottom of the boat. In the confusion that fol- 
lowed, the man was rescued and the royal navy 
men had to row back to Saltash without their prize. 

The most amusing story, however, comes from 
Quethiock. The village boasted at that time of the 
possession of a tall, powerfully built young fellow, 
one Sampson Poldrasher, a farm laborer and a fore- 
most hand in most of the athletic sports held in the 
neighborhood, especially the wrestling matches, so 
that his name was known far and near, and appears 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


149 

to have reached the ears of some who were interested 
in procuring men to serve his majesty on field or 
’flood. One bright, clear, frosty winter’s morning 
Poldrasher was engaged in thrashing wheat in the 
barn, using for the purpose the old-fashioned flail, 
or “drashel,” as it is called in Devon and Cornwall. 
Upon looking around, he saw a party of uniformed 
men, headed by an officer, coming up through the 
village, and about to enter the yard. 

The bam, like most buildings of its kind in the 
west of England, was built in the side of a hill, over 
the cowhouses. It was provided with two doors, or, 
rather, with four half-doors, two of which opened 
over the farmyard, the two opposite ones opening 
into the ‘‘mowhay” and level with it. 

Poldrasher acted with quiet and deliberate 
promptitude. First he closed and barred the half- 
doors opening over the yard. Then he did the same 
by the under half leading into the mowhay, leav- 
ing the upper half open. He then proceeded to 
spread a dozen sheaves of wheat on the floor, and, 
taking his flail, his back being toward the closed 
doors, he resumed his work. Presently there came 
an order, delivered in a strong, commanding tone 
of voice, something about surrendering in the king’s 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


150 

name. Looking up he was confronted with the 
glittering, gold laced uniform of Lieutenant Fitz- 
killem of His Majesty’s navy, a midshipman, and 
about a dozen sailors armed with cutlasses. 

“Surrender, in the name of His Most Gracious 
Majesty King George,” came the order. 

Poldrasher coolly continued his work. 

Again came the command, in a still more im- 
perious tone. No reply save the rhythmical thump- 
thud, thump-thud of the flail on the barn-floor. 
Then the half-door opened, and Lieutenant Fitz- 
killem stepped inside, followed by two of his men; 
quickly, however, he sprang back, nearly falling over 
the blue- jackets. The descending flail had just 
missed the brim of his cocked hat and passed within 
the eighth of an inch of his nose. The half-door at 
the same time falling to, had latched itself. Ap- 
parently taking no notice of the incident, Poldrasher 
continued his work; he manifested no hurry, no 
fear, not the slightest excitement. He simply kept 
at his work. They were not cowards, those men; 
cowardice was not, never has been, a prominent char- 
acteristic of the British sailor; but they saw that, 
one by one, the crew of a frigate would go down un- 
der that terrible flail, wielded by those great mus- 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


151 

cular arms. Like a skillful general he had guarded 
his rear from attack, and was apparently well able 
to protect his front. It was only a question of how 
long he could hold out; but as there was no haste 
in his movements, simply the steady, deliberate right 
and left, right and left swing of the flail, it appeared 
as though he could go on until Bonaparte and his 
army had died of old age and Villeneuve's fleet had 
rotted. 

It was vexatious, too, not to be able to take him. 
Fancy Sampson Poldrasher armed with a capstan- 
bar boarding a French or a Spanish three-decker, 
and in ten minutes, at the rate of forty-five per 
minute: Thump-thud! thump-thud! 

It was in vain the lieutenant expatiated on the 
terrible crime of resisting the king's officers. Pol- 
drasher was not resisting any one. He was quietly 
and conscientiously minding his work. If Fitzkillem 
chose to come within reach of his flail, that was 
his lookout. They dared not force an entrance into 
the barn by any other way without permission from 
the owner of the property; and the owner of this 
farm was Squire Coryton, who resided at Pentillie 
Castle, seven miles away; and his sympathies would 
probably be with Poldrasher. An hour passed. The 


152 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


officer stamped, fumed, and threatened. The ‘‘mid- 
die” drew his dirk and strutted around, vowing 
what he would do if he only had the chance. The 
sailors tried hard not to laugh. Meanwhile the grain 
was beaten to meal, and the straw to chaff; for, of 
course, the thrasher never stopped to change his 
floor. 

Then, at a word from the officer, the party turned 
and fell into line. As they marched out of the yard 
they thought they heard the sound of a laugh from 
the barn, which was curiously echoed from not only 
the stable and “shippen,” but also from the open win- 
dows of the farmhouse; but the last sounds that 
reached their ears as they regained the road was 
the “thump-thud, thump-thud” of Sampson Pol- 
drasher’s flail. 


SKETCH XIV. 


Thej Reicruiting Se:rge;ant. 

A ne:ighbor of mine in Cornwall, the late Mr. 
William Smale, had in his possession some Penin- 
sular War medals which had a curious and rather 
romantic history. It is as follows : 

One winter’s day very early in the nineteenth 
century a tall, well-built young man, dressed 
as a farm laborer, was tramping through North 
Devon in search of employment. Times were hard, 
work was scarce, and many thousands of honest in- 
dustrious Englishmen found it extremely difficult to 
earn the barest possible living for themselves and 
families. The young man had had a weary walk 
around through Holsworthy, Torrington, and Bide- 
ford; and now, weary in body and sick at heart, 
he entered the town of Barnstaple. Walking wearily 
and listlessly into the main street, his eyes fixed on 
the ground, he was aroused by a strong, hearty 
153 


154 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


voice: ‘‘I say, young man; would you like to join 
the service?” 

Looking up he saw a party of men dressed in the 
uniform of one of the infantry regiments, among 
them being a number of men in plain clothes, the 
ribbons in their hats indicating that they had taken 
the king’s shilling and enlisted as soldiers. The 
whole party was headed by a middle-aged man with 
sash and belt and wearing a sword. 

“I say, young man; would you like to join the 
service ?” 

Join the “service!” Join anything rather than 
starve; and the next minute the shilling was in 
his pocket, the first that had been there for many a 
day. The ribbons were soon placed in his hat, and 
he had taken his place in the ranks of the recruits. 
A few weeks’ preliminary drill, and the whole party 
was shipped off to join the army in Portugal, under 
the command of Sir Arthur Wellesley, afterward the 
Duke of Wellington. 

At the time of his enlistment no questions were 
asked as to his antecedents. The exigencies of the 
service were too pressing and serious to warrant any 
nicety as to the private character and circumstances 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


155 

of the recruits, and the authorities were fain to be 
content with any answers that were made to the 
questions put to the men who enlisted. About this 
time a young married man named John Smale mys- 
teriously disappeared from a village in Northwest 
Devon, leaving his wife and son, a child of about two 
years of age, dependent on the parish. 

Inquiries were made on all sides, but with no 
result. Owing to the absence of good roads, the 
difficulty of traveling, and the absence of any reg- 
ular methods of communication between outlying 
towns and villages, a man who w^andered ten or 
fifteen miles from home was practically lost. And 
so after a while the mysterious disappearance of 
John Smale ceased to be talked about. His wife 
struggled along, choring for the farmers’ wives 
around the neighborhood, and, as I said, assisted by 
a pittance from the parish. 

Meanwhile John Smale junior grew and throve, 
and as soon as he was old enough — that is about 
seven or eight years of age — he was bound out as 
a parish apprentice, and soon became inured to all 
the hardships that lot involved : coarse food, consist- 
ing of barley-bread, skimmed milk, and rusty bacon, 


156 RBAL life sketches, 

etc.; hard work, and often cruel, tyrannical mas- 
ters; an education of the scantiest possible descrip- 
tion; exposure to all the rigors of North Devon 
winters, and the heat of North Devon summers. 
John passed through it all, qualifying himself in the 
words of the old song : 

“To reap and to mow, to plow and to sow, 

And to be a farmer’s boy.” 

Fifteen or sixteen years passed, and John was 
a sturdy, well-built young man of seventeen or 
eighteen, six feet in height and well proportioned; 
and one fine spring-day John obtained a holiday, 
with permission to attend Barnstaple Fair. John 
was walking leisurely along the main street, looking 
around at the droves of cattle, the flocks of sheep, the 
horses, the sweetmeat stalls, the penny shows, and 
all that went to make up a country fair in the olden 
time, when precisely the same words fell on his ear 
that had been heard by that other young man so 
many years before : “I say, young man ; would you 
like to join the service?” 

The speaker was a tall, remarkably well-built man 
of from forty to forty-five, dressed in the brilliant 
scarlet uniform of a recruiting sergeant. On his 
breast were several medals, indicating that he had 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


157 

seen active service and that he had come through it 
all creditably. 

Approaching John, he looked searchingly into 
his face. Then, in a low tone, he asked : ‘‘What is 
your name, young man ?” 

“John Smale, sir,’^ was the reply. 

The sergeant gave a scarcely perceptible start, 
and, laying his hand on the young man’s shoulder, 
he whispered: 

“Do n’t you join the service, John. Can you meet 
me at the ‘King’s Arms’ Hotel at seven o’clock this 
evening? I want to have a talk with you.” 

John promised, and the sergeant passed on. 

Promptly at seven o’clock John was at the 
“King’s Arms,” and in a few minutes was joined 
by the sergeant, who took him into a private room 
and began to interrogate him. 

“You say your name is John Smale ? Where do 
you come from ?” 

John gave the name of the parish and village. 

“And is your father living ?” 

“No, sir,” was the reply. “That is, we don’t 
know. He went away when I was about two years 
old, and we never heard from him afterward.” 

“And your mother ? Is she living ?” 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


158 

“Yes, sir.” 

“She never married again, I suppose?” This in 
a rather anxious, tremulous voice. 

“O no, sir,” was the reply. “She always seemed 
to hope that father would turn up again.” 

There was a pause ; then the sergeant rose, and, 
approaching the astonished young man, he placed his 
hand on his shoulder and exclaimed: ''John, my 
hoy, I your father.'^ 

“You, sir !” was the startled exclamation. 

“Yes, John! I am John Smale.” 

And then followed the explanation. He had 
been driven to desperation for want of work, and had 
enlisted. He had concealed the fact of his being a 
married man, as he calculated that his wife would 
be better off in the care of the parish than sharing 
the regimental pay of a private in an infantry regi- 
ment. 

He had been sent off to Spain, and had served 
through that long and arduous campaign, accom- 
panying Wellington in his advance into Spain from 
Portugal, and in his retreat to the lines of Torres 
Vedras; in his second advance participating in the 
storming of Badajos and Ciudad Rodrigo ; the bat- 
tles of Talavera, Basaco, Vittoria, and San Sebas- 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


159 


tian ; and now, if his wife could find it in her heart to 
forgive his neglect of her — taking all the circum- 
stances of his roving life into consideration — he 
hoped to rejoin her as soon as his term of service ex- 
pired, which, in view of the amount of active service 
he had seen, he hoped would be soon, at any rate in 
a very few years. 

There was great excitement in when John 

returned from Barnstaple Fair; and the news 
soon spread that the long-lost John Smale had been 
found. Mrs. Smale readily forgave, and heartily 
welcomed the great, stalwart warrior, who had re- 
mained faithful to her through all the long years of 
his absence, when at last he obtained leave to visit his 
old home. And when his term of service came to 
an end, and he obtained an honorable discharge from 
the army, he was appointed to a position in the bor- 
ough of Launceston, which office he filled up to the 
time of his death. 

The Mr. William Smale, whose name is men- 
tioned at the head of this chapter, and from whose 
family I obtained the facts above related, was his 
grandson. 


SKETCH XV. 


A Hero oe Plymouth Sound. 

Plymouth Sound! What memories — legend- 
ary, historical, and personal — would cluster around 
me and crowd into my mind if I were now rounding 
Ramehead and entering its waters ! Among the 
former is the story told by Geoffrey of Monmouth, 
who flourished in the reign of Henry II, that it 
was from the Hoe, at Plymouth, that Gogmagog, 
the last of a race of giants who inhabited Britain, 
was hurled into the sea by Corinseus, the Trojan. It 
was to commemorate this circumstance that pre- 
vious to the building of the citadel, in 1671, an im- 
mense figure representing the giant was kept cut in 
the turf on the spot where that structure now stands. 

Thomas Carlyle, in his “Heroes and Hero Wor- 
ship,’’ expresses his belief that all those wild legends 
had some foundation ; in fact, that some person really 
lived at one time whose actions have been distorted 
160 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


i6i 


and amplified by successive narrators until his real 
personality has been lost under the mass of tradition 
that has gathered about him. In the Athenaeum at 
Plymouth are the skulls and other relics of a race of 
men who lived there in prehistoric times, and whose 
bones have been found in the limestone caves in the 
neighborhood. 

Those do not represent men of gigantic stature, 
but rather a race more nearly resembling in this 
respect the Japanese or the Scivashes of British Co- 
lumbia. At the same time it is possible that tribes, 
families, and individuals varying greatly in stature 
may have existed side by side in those early days 
as well as now. 

Plymouth, which under the name of “Luttone’’ 
formerly belonged to the abbot and monks of Plymp- 
ton, had a market as early as 1285, but was not in- 
corporated as a borough until 1439. In the sixty- 
four years from 1338 to 1402 it was sacked by the 
French no less than five times; namely, 1338, 1350, 
1377, 1400, and 1402. On the last occasion it was 
the Bretons who were the aggressors and who are 
said to have burned four hundred houses. These 
last have left their mark in the town, a part of which, 
lying east of Sutton Harbor, being still known as 


II 


i 62 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


"‘Breton Side/' It was during one of these in- 
cursions that the village of West Stonehouse, which 
formerly stood somewhere between Kingsand and 
Maker, was wiped out of existence and has never 
been rebuilt. The township of East Stonehouse, 
however, lying between the boroughs of Plymouth 
and Devonport, is quite an important place. It was 
on Plymouth Hoe, near by where his bronze statue 
now stands, looking seaward, that Sir Francis Drake 
was playing bowls on the evening of July 19, 1588, 
when, to quote the words of Macaulay: 

“ There came a gallant merchant ship 
Full sail to Plymouth Bay,” 

announcing that the Spanish Armada was on its 
way up channel. 

“ Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall, 
The beacons blazed upon the roof of Edgcumbe’s lofty hall. 
Many a light fishing bark put out to pry along the coast. 
And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland many a 
post. 

Night sank upon the dusky beach and on the purple sea; 
Such night in England ne’er had been, nor e’er again shall 
be.” 

“Edgcumbe’s lofty hall” had then been built about 
thirty-five years, and it is said that when the Duke 
of Medina Sidonia, who commanded the Spanish 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 163 

Armada, visited England with his royal master, 
Philip II, in 1554, he, in company with the Admiral 
of France and Flanders, was entertained by Sir 
Piers Edgcumbe, and, while admiring the beauties 
of the good knight’s domain, made the pious re- 
solve to seize it at the first opportunity, and that on 
the accession of Queen Elizabeth King Philip prom- 
ised the duke that Mount Edgcumbe should be his 
when England was conquered. Had some one been 
thoughtful enough on his leaving Spain to present 
him with a cookery book published some centuries 
later he would have found in the directions “How to 
cook a hare” this significant passage: ''First catch 
your hare'' Medina Sidonia never caught his hare ; 
instead of that he caught a tartar. 

It was from Plymouth Sound that Drake and 
Hawkins sailed on their last voyage to the Spanish 
main, in 1595. 

Volumes might be filled with accounts of the stir- 
ring scenes which have been witnessed on these 
waters; I must, however, content myself with one 
or two. 

The Breakwater, built early in the nineteenth cen- 
tury, is an artificial island one mile in length and con- 
structed of enormous blocks of stone, held together 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


164 

with iron clamps and cement. Entering Plymouth 
Sound from the west, and sailing through Cawsand 
Bay, the heights around you bristling with cannon 
planted at every conceivable angle ; passing close un- 
der the guns of Picklecoombe fort, admiring as you 
pass the tree-clad cliffs of Mount Edgcumbe, you 
meet an unexpected obstacle. 

Drake’s Island, covered with fortifications, oc- 
cupies a position nearly in the center of the space be- 
tween the Breakwater and Mill Bay. Between the 
island and Mount Edgcumbe is a ridge of rocks 
visible at low water. This is known as “The 
Bridge,” and no war vessel, nor any merchant ship 
above a certain tonnage is allowed to go over it at 
any time of the tide, the rule being to sail or steam 
around by the eastern end of Drake’s Island. 

It was in the early days of the nineteenth century 
that the brig Speedy was lying in Barn Pool just in- 
side the bridge. The Speedy was a war vessel of 
about one hundred tons burden, armed with twelve 
fourteen-pounders, and manned, or, rather, crowded 
with eighty men. She was commanded by Captain 
Cochrane, afterward Lord Dundonald, grandfather 
of the Lord Dundonald who served under Buller 
during the campaign in Natal and the relief of Lady- 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 165 

smith. England was then at war with France and 
Spain, and by some means or other Captain Coch- 
rane got word that a rich Spanish merchant ship 
was in the channel on her way home from South 
America, with an immense amount of gold on board. 
Cochrane at once hoisted sail, and, to the astonish- 
ment and horror of the onlookers, was seen flying 
over "‘the bridge” before a brisk northerly breeze, to- 
tally disregarding the signals that were being made 
to return and be tried by court-martial for breaking 
the admiralty regulations. A few days later Coch- 
rane sailed back into the sound with the great Span- 
ish ship in tow, and two golden candlesticks, each 
six feet long, and which were designed for some 
Spanish cathedral, mounted on the mastheads of 
the Speedy, 

Many a terrible shipwreck has been witnessed 
on these waters, both before and since the building 
of the Breakwater. One especially was that of an 
East Indiaman, crowded with passengers, most of 
whom were soldiers and their wives, on their way 
to India. She went ashore under the Hoe and lay 
broadside to on the rocks, at the mercy of the waves. 
Her crew and passengers were rescued from death 
by the courage and skill of Captain Pellew, after- 


i66 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


ward Lord Exmouth, who was on his way to St. 
Andrew's Church, in company with Dr. Hawker, 
when he heard of the occurrence. Captain Pellew 
arrived on the spot just in time to effect the rescue 
before the ship went to pieces. In this connection 
I may mention that Captain Pellew's old ship, the 
Arethusa, a name familiar and endeared to every 
British sailor, was afloat in Devonport Harbor when 
I left England, and I hope, later on, to devote a 
few pages to her and a few of her contemporaries 
who were in existence during my lifetime. 

There is another circumstance connected with 
Plymouth Sound, which I must insert here. I 
have not met with any mention of it in history, but 
it was a tradition of ‘‘no mean order" among old 
Plymouthians when I was a boy. It is this: 

During one of our wars with France in the eight- 
eenth century a French squadron was reported in 
the channel, heading toward Plymouth. The town 
was in a terrible state of alarm. There were few 
ships in port, and the troops had been removed, 
so that the place was practically defenseless, a fact 
of which the French admiral was probably well 
aware. Crowds of people were in the streets, eagerly 
and anxiously discussing the situation and trying to 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 167 

devise means of defense, when a brilliant idea oc- 
curred to a native genius. As well as I remember 
it was a lady. The fashion at that time was for 
ladies of every grade in the social scale to wear 
scarlet cloaks. It was a warm evening about the 
middle of August, 17 — , when word was brought 
into Plymouth of the near approach of the enemy. 

The fields around Plymouth were full of shocks 
of corn; and in cupboards and wardrobes in Ply- 
mouth were thousands of red cloaks. There was 
much bustle in the town that night, and travelers 
carrying mysterious-looking bundles were hurrying 
off east and west. When day dawned the cornfields 
around Plymouth presented a singular appearance. 
From Staddon Heights on the east. Stoke Damerel 
on the north, to Rame and Maker on the west, the 
shocks of corn were attired in scarlet; and when 
the Frenchmen on the seas turned their glasses 
toward the shore they saw the same dreaded color 
standing in serried ranks above the town which their 
fathers had met at Blenheim, at Ramifies, at Fon- 
tenoy, and Malaplaquet. They decided to defer their 
visit for some more suitable occasion. 

The special act of heroism which I wish to relate 
was performed on the night of October 13, 1877. 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


i68 

I well remember that night. It was Sunday. I 
had been conducting the services at Trematon. It 
was a bright, clear, windy afternoon, the wind 
blowing fresh from south-southwest. When I left 
Trematon, about 8.30 P. M., the wind had increased 
to a gale, and when I reached home about eleven 
o’clock it was blowing a hurricane. During my 
walk of about seven and a half miles I noticed a 
peculiar, close, warm feeling in the air, which made 
walking in an overcoat very difficult. My walk, 
with the previous exertions of the day, had fatigued 
me to such an extent that I had no sooner lain down 
than I was sound asleep. Next morning a remark- 
able sight presented itself. Gigantic oaks were lying 
in all directions. A row of tall elm-trees on the 
opposite side of the river were lying where they had 
stood the evening previous, and on all sides were 
marks of devastation and ruin. 

The shores of Plymouth Sound were strewn 
with wrecks. Several vessels went ashore in Jenny- 
cliff Bay and under Mount Batten. I saw a schooner 
lying on the rocks at Tinside, just east of where the 
promenade pier now stands. Her jib-boom was 
over the roadway, and I passed under it. Even up 
Cattewater limestone barges and other smaller craft 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 169 

either sunk at their moorings or went ashore around 
Turnchapel and Oreston. But the most melancholy 
sight of all was two immense chain-cables lying 
across the breakwater. In the evening a large 
three-masted bark named the R. H. Jones had en- 
tered the sound and dropped anchor outside the 
breakwater. When the gale increased in violence 
the captain would no doubt have weighed anchor 
and sought shelter inside; but the wind blowing 
right in toward the land made this impossible, as 
before he could have gained sufficient sea-room to 
wear, he would in all probability have gone on the 
mew-stone or on the rocks under Bovisand. As it 
was he trusted his two anchors to hold him against 
the gale, but was cruelly deceived. 

When the storm was at its height the anchors 
dragged. Then a tremendous sea struck the ship, 
lifting her right on the breakwater ; then another sea 
struck her and carried her clean over, and she sunk in 
deep water inside. Her Majesty’s ship Turquoise 
was lying at anchor just off Drake’s Island. The 
moon had now risen, and those on board the war ves- 
sel observed a quantity of wreckage drifting shore- 
ward. Even inside the breakwater the sea was run- 
ning mountains-high, to use a common expression, 


170 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


when away to windward there sounded a cry for 
help. Among those on the deck of the Turquoise 
was Quartermaster Barnes, who is described as a 
Christian man and a member of the Wesleyan Meth- 
odist Church. Mr. Barnes heard the cry for help, 
and determined, if possible, to effect a rescue. 
Again came the piteous cry, this time coming nearer, 
but still some distance off on the starboard bow. 

There was no time to be lost; unless he could 
intercept the man, in a few minutes he would pass 
under the ship’s stern and be dashed among the 
wreckage now rapidly accumulating in Jennycliff 
Bay. His first act was to fasten on his life-belt. 
Then he had a life-line attached to his waist. De- 
scending from the starboard gangway, he plunged 
into the water. It was a task fraught with consider- 
able danger and requiring tremendous muscular 
power to swim, fully clothed, across a heavily run- 
ning sea, where ships, spars, and rigging were being 
borne in tangled masses toward the shore. It was an 
anxious time for those on the Turquoise , as they just 
saw from time to time the head of the brave quarter- 
master appearing on the crest of a wave, and again 
and again disappearing. Then the man whom he 
had set out to rescue was seen drifting toward him 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


171 


at an obtuse angle. Then there went up a cheer from 
the warship as Mr. Barnes caught his man and 
shouted to his comrades to haul him in. Then the 
line alternately tightened and slackened as slowly the 
men, still holding on to a piece of wreckage, were 
hauled across and through the waves. Another 
cheer as the rescued and rescuer were assisted up 
the side of the rolling and plunging ship and on to 
the deck. Then it was found that the man rescued 
was a German, the only survivor of the crew of the 
ill-fated R. H. Jones. I need not go into particulars 
of how Mr. Barnes's heroic act was recognized by 
his comrades, the Royal Humane Society, or the 
members of King Street Chapel; but, as well as I 
remember, it did receive recognition on all sides, 
and I can only add that it was only one contribution 
to the long list of heroic deeds connected with Ply- 
mouth Sound. 

One other remarkable incident connected with 
that memorable night remains to be mentioned. It 
was some time after midnight, in fact about one 
or two A. M., that the wind suddenly shifted from 
southwest to northwest, and, after blowing with 
tremendous violence for about half an hour, as sud- 
denly died away. This sudden change of the wind 


172 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


saved one ship in the English Channel in the fol- 
lowing remarkable manner. I relate it as near as 
I can as it was told me in the course of a conversa- 
tion I had with him some time afterward by the 
Rev. Mr. Kelly, rector of Salcombe, Devonshire. 
A large passenger steamer was that evening slowly 
forcing her way down channel in the teeth of the 
gale. When she was some miles southeast of Eddy- 
stone her machinery broke down, and she was soon 
drifting helplessly on a lee shore. 

When within a couple of miles of the Sturt Point 
the captain told the passengers and crew that unless 
the wind changed within a few minutes, nothing 
could save them from going ashore. 

He had scarcely made this announcement, when 
the change I have mentioned took place and the ship 
was carried by the northwest gale far enough out to 
sea to be out of danger, and the next morning she 
put into Plymouth. 


SKETCH XVI. 


A Hero oe H. M. S. “Magpie.” 

“Not once or twice in our rough island’s story, 

The path of duty was the way to glory.” 

— Tennyson. 

I little thought one clear, bright, frosty Jan- 
uary morning, in 1871, as I walked up and down 
the deck of the steamship Aerial, in company with 
my old friend and former schoolmate George Mar- 
tin, that that was to be the last chat we should ever 
have together. I say “old friend,” not in respect of 
our advanced age, as my friend was scarcely out of 
his teens, while I was still in mine ; but I had always 
respected his cool, dignified manliness, which con- 
trasted strongly with my somewhat impulsive tem- 
perament. He had always kept ahead of me in the 
day-school, and we had sat side by side in the class 
in the Sunday-school, which was taught by his fa- 
ther, Captain George Martin, of the slpop Secret, 

173 


174 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


As we steamed down the river under Saltash 
Bridge, and passed the old and new war vessels in 
the Hamoaze, we conversed on a variety of topics, 
among which our future prospects formed one. 
Hard work was before us both, and we knew it. 
His work on the sea was completed long before 
that year came to an end; mine continued another 
thirty years, spared to recount the cool recognizing 
and contempt of danger which characterized his life, 
and the heroic deed which brought that life to a close. 

He had been appointed doctor’s assistant, or 
sick bay steward on board Her Majesty’s steamer 
Magpie, which was commissioned for the east coast 
of Africa, to be engaged in the suppression of the 
slave-trade. We landed at North Corner, and at the 
Dockyard gate we shook hands, and parted. A few 
weeks later he left England never to return. 

Letters arrived from time to time, giving ac- 
counts of cruising up and down the Mozambique 
Channel, across the Indian Ocean, and along the 
coasts of Arabia and Beloochistan — letters full of 
interest to us, his old companions and schoolmates. 

Then one day toward the end of the summer there 
came a letter from the captain of the Magpie an- 
nouncing his death. 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


175 


Before giving an account of the death of Mr. 
Martin it may be interesting to note a few particu- 
lars relating to the East African slave-trade. 

The tide of public opinion may be said to have 
turned in favor of the suppression of the slave-trade 
and the total abolition of slavery when the members 
of the Society of Friends in America, led by John 
Woolman and Anthony Benezet, passed resolutions 
in favor of abolition, and backed those resolutions 
by liberating their own slaves ; which action was sup- 
ported by their brethren in England in 1754. 

The matter was brought before the British Par- 
liament early in 1788 by Clarkson and Wilberforce, 
names rendered famous by the noble stand they 
made in the cause of oppressed humanity. After ex- 
hausting inquiries which revealed unspeakable hor- 
rors in connection with the shipment of slaves from 
Africa to America, and in which it was shown that 
British ships alone carried forty-two thousand slaves 
annually, the first measure for the regulation of the 
traffic was passed in the British Parliament and re- 
ceived the royal assent on July ii, 1788. 

About the same time the matter was brought 
before the French National Assembly by Petiou, La- 
fayette, Mirabeau, and others, whose names were 


176 real life sketches. 

afterward made familiar to the world in connection 
with the French Revolution. A writer on this sub- 
ject in the Encyclopaedia Britannica makes this ob- 
servation, that while the American and British agi- 
tators were influenced by the principles of Christian- 
ity, their co-workers in France were prompted by 
humanitarian motives and the principle of the equal- 
ity of mankind. 

Bonaparte on his return from Elbe, during the 
‘‘hundred days” found time to bring the matter be- 
fore the French Chamber. The British and Amer- 
ican Governments, in 1814, inserted a clause in the 
treaty of Ghent dealing with the suppression of the 
traffic. A similar agreement was entered into be- 
tween the British and Brazilian Governments in 
1822. 

During at least fifty years of the nineteenth cen- 
tury British cruisers were kept active on the west 
coast of Africa, and a considerable set-off to the 
horrible unhealthiness of that station was the pros- 
pect of prize-money by the capture of slave ships. 

The emancipation of the slaves in the United 
States, and similar measures adopted by the South 
American Republics, together with the introduction 
of steam for the propelling of the ships employed in 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


177 

its suppression, has reduced the West African trade 
to very small proportions. 

Meanwhile attention was drawn to the trade in 
human beings carried on along the East African 
Coast by the Arabs, who employed for the purpose 
light, swift-sailing craft, known as “dhows,’’ ves- 
sels varying in size from fifty to one hundred and 
fifty tons’ burden, and sometimes much larger, 
armed with old-fashioned swivel-guns and manned 
by a crew of the most desperate ruffians that could 
be found. Those vessels, being of light draught, 
could evade the British cruisers by running into 
creeks, and over shoals and sandbars, where they 
could not be followed except by boats, and sometimes 
the most desperate conflicts ensued before their cap- 
ture was effected. 

The principal slave market on that coast was Zan- 
zibar, and it was only after considerable pressure 
had been brought to bear on the sultan by the Brit- 
ish Government, represented by Sir Bartle Frere, 
that he consented to close it in 1874. 

The then Sultan of Zanzibar, Seyid Burghash, 
has been described as a man of more than ordinary 
intelligence and of a mild, humane disposition; but 
while he had his own inclinations and the British 


12 


178 real life sketches. 

fleet on one side, he had the Arab chiefs and slave- 
traders on the other, and the closing of the Zanzibar 
slave market, while it materially checked did not 
suppress the East African trade, which found other 
outlets until the recent conquest of the Eastern Sou- 
dan by the British Egyptian troops, and the secur- 
ing the control of the Nile Valley is tending in the 
direction of its utter extinction. 

A characteristic story has been told of Seyid 
Burghash in connection with his visit to England a 
year or two after the closing of the Zanzibar slave 
market. The sultan was being shown through the 
National Art Gallery when he was observed closely 
examining the painting of the Good Samaritan. On 
being asked if he understood what it meant, he re- 
plied : "‘O yes, I see it plain enough. The man who 
fell among thieves is the poor African slave. The 
thieves are the Arab traders. The man who is as- 
sisting the unfortunate one is the British Govern- 
ment, while / am the ass that has to bear the burden.'' 

Many thrilling stories used to appear in the 
papers at that time of the daring exploits of the 
British seamen employed in “cutting out’^ those 
dhows, one that I remember well being that of two 
blue- jackets belonging to a gunboat who had ob- 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


179 


tained permission to take one of the ship’s boats 
for a row along the coast one evening. Pulling 
gently along the densely wooded shore, they sud- 
denly found themselves in a small creek where a 
dhow loaded with slaves was moored close to the 
shore. It was now nearly dark, and the two men 
decided at once to attempt to capture her. Armed 
only with their cutlasses, they ran their boat under 
her stern and sprang on deck. The Arabs were so 
taken by surprise at this sudden onslaught that 
without waiting to see how many of those terrible 
Britons had boarded them they fled below, and the 
hatches were promptly closed after them. The two 
sailors then cut her cable and put out to sea with 
their prize. It is needless to add that notwithstand- 
ing the intervention of a considerable amount of red 
tape, the men were well rewarded for their gallant 
exploit. It was on this work that Her Majesty’s 
gunboat Magpie was employed in 1871. She was 
cruising off the southern coast of Arabia for the 
purpose of intercepting any dhows that might have 
evaded the blockading squadron on the African coast 
when a dhow was sighted, and a chase ensued. A 
long range gun was fired from time to time, as a 
hint to her to shorten sail ; but the Arabs, following 


i8o 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


their usual tactics when closely pursued, took ad- 
vantage of a low sandy shore, where the water was 
too shallow for the gunboat to follow her, and ran 
their vessel ashore. They then got all their slaves, 
numbering about one hundred, on deck, struck off 
their irons and told them to run for their lives, 
as the white men would eat them if they caught 
them; but they, the Arabs, would protect them. 
Meanwhile boats were lowered from the war vessel, 
and the crews, armed with revolvers and cutlasses, 
were soon in pursuit. The Arabs made the most 
strenuous exertions to secure their slaves, but the 
poor creatures were stiff from long confinement in 
irons and weak from insufficient food, while the 
Magpie men were hot and eager for the chase. 

The Negroes made slow progress, while well- 
aimed revolver shots put many of their captors out 
of business, and some obstinate cases who showed 
fight were dealt with at close quarters with the steel. 
It was not long before all the slaves were collected 
and marched down to the beach, where to their sur- 
prise and delight they received every kindness and 
attention. They were soon on board the Magpie, 
and a hearty meal and some decent clothing made 
them a happier looking crowd of human beings than 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. i8i 

had fled from their friends at the instigation of their 
enemies. 

Meanwhile on the beach another scene was being 
enacted. On quitting the dhow the Arabs had 
landed a poor slave boy, who being too ill to proceed 
with the others had been left to his fate. He was 
observed lying on the sand, and when the ship’s doc- 
tor and his assistant, Mr. Martin, came to him he 
was found to be in a raging fever. Very tenderly 
he was lifted into the boat and taken on board the 
Magpie, where he was lodged in the sick bay. It 
now devolved on Mr. Martin to care for him, and 
with that cool disregard of his own safety or con- 
venience that characterized him he set about his task. 
Day and night he nursed the little Negro boy with 
the same care and attention he would have bestowed 
on one of his own race, and in a few days he had the 
satisfaction of seeing his patient recovering. But 
alas ! Those tropical fevers are infectious, and the 
young Negro was scarcely on his feet when his 
noble-hearted nurse was down with the same ter- 
rible fever. He rapidly sank, and a few days later 
the waters of the Persian Gulf closed over another 
of Britain’s sons, who life had been sacrificed in the 
cause of humanity and in the discharge of duty. 


SKETCH XVIL 

A Hmo OF THF Caradons. 

Thf Caradon Hills — I shall have occasion to 
mention them and some of their historical associ- 
ations later on. Every Cornishman who reads this 
will recall to mind the bleak, barren aspect of those 
rounded hills running northeast and southwest from 
St. Ives to Altarnun, and if he hails from anywhere 
east of Liskeard will be familiar with the names of 
Pensilva, Tokenbury Corner, Minions, Caradon- 
town, Rilla Mill and Marke Valley, Cheese Wing, 
and a score of other places, including the mines of 
North and South Caradon, “Phoenix United,’' Wheal 
Vincent, and others. 

Most of my readers are familiar with the story 
told by Thomas Carlyle, entitled “A Hero.” It may 
interest them to know that “brave Will” was the late 
Mr. Peter Roberts, of Callington, and that for some 
years I had the honor of serving on the same “plan” 
with him and his two sons. His eldest son, Mr. 

# 182 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 183 

W. H. Roberts, who died in Plymouth a few years 
ago, for many years held the important position of 
Organizing Secretary of Young Men’s Christian 
Associations in the west of England. His younger 
son, Mr. J. P. Roberts, was at the time I left Eng- 
land engaged in farming in the County of Surrey. 
One of the last farewell letters I received before 
I left England was from Mr. W. H. Roberts, and 
an old '"plan” in my possession, dated February, 
March, April, 1873, shows the name of Mr. Roberts, 
Sr., as “No. 10.” He has no appointments on this 
“plan,” which I attribute to the fact of his suffering 
at the time from asthma and miner’s consumption, 
from which terrible disease, which is generally 
brought on by exposure to damp and inhaling bad 
air and powder smoke, he died a few months after 
this “plan” was issued. 

Mr. Roberts was a man of more than ordinary 
intelligence and preaching ability, and it could truly 
be said of him, as it was of Barnabas (Acts xi, 25) : 
“He was a good man and full of the Holy Ghost 
and of faith.” I distinctly remember his calm, ear- 
nest, thoughtful face as he used to stand in the pul- 
pit of the old chapel at St. Dominic, and the quiet, 
earnest tone of his voice as he spoke in the “love- 


i 84 RBAL life sketches, 

feast” at Callington, where he was regarded with 
an affection which amounted almost to reverence. 
The man whom he rescued from death, the ‘‘Jack” 
of Carlyle’s story, was Mr. Walter Verran. A near 
relative of his, Mr. William Verran, whose name 
appears on the “plan” above referred to, was a par- 
ticular friend of mine, and many a long talk we have 
had together when on our way to and from our ap- 
pointments. Mr. Verran was for some years en- 
gaged in mining in Newfoundland. He was always 
a welcome and most interesting speaker at mission- 
ary meetings, and used to speak of himself as a 
“returned missionary.” 

The story of the rescue as told me by the late 
Mr. W. H. Roberts is, as near as I can remember 
it after a lapse of over twenty years, substantially as 
related by Carlyle, with one or two slight variations. 
It appears that the two men, Messrs. Roberts and 
Verran, were employed in one of the Caradon mines. 
They were engaged in sinking either a “winze,” 
connecting two levels, or the main shaft. They were 
blasting, and a man was stationed at a “plat” above 
them, whose duty it was to haul the men up to a 
place of safety when a “hole” was charged and a 
shot fired. He was provided for this purpose with 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 185 

a windlass and bucket. When the powder had been 
duly ''tamped'' this man would be signaled, one 
man would be hauled up to the "plat," while the 
other would remain behind to light the fuse, to be 
hauled up as soon as this was done. On this occa- 
sion, however, they had strangely enough forgotten 
to bring a knife with which to cut the fuse, and re- 
sorted to the clumsy expedient of cutting it with a 
sharp stone. After one or two blows, to their un- 
speakable horror the fuse ignited. Their position 
was terrible in the extreme. Two men in a confined 
space, a heavy charge of blasting power, and a burn- 
ing fuse. Both men sprang to the bucket, and 
shouted to the man above to haul them up. This, 
however, was beyond his strength with nothing but 
a simple windlass. He replied by shouting down to 
them that he could only haul up one man at a time. 
Then came a crisis. It was a moment of decision. 
Gray in his "Elegy in a Country Churchyard," pa- 
thetically asks the question: 

“ For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 

This pleasing anxious being e’er resigned, 

Teft the warm precincts of the cheerful day. 

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind!” 

And into Mr. Roberts's mind there may have flashed 

the words of his Master : "Greater love hath no man 


I86 RBAL life sketches. 

than this, that a man lay down his life for his 
friend.’’ 

The crisis was of only a moment’s duration. Mr, 
Roberts at once relinquished his hold on the bucket, 
exclaiming as he did S0‘: “Go up, Walter, you are not 
ready to die. I am. In two minutes I shall be in 
heaven.” Verran was rapidly hauled up, and in 
about two minutes the explosion of the charge 
sent fragments of stone flying up the shaft, even 
striking the men who were anxiously peering down 
into the darkness. As quickly as possible they went 
down, expecting nothing less than to find the man- 
gled body of brave Peter Roberts buried under the 
rocks. To their intense delight and astonishment, 
however, he was alive and unhurt. On letting go his 
hold on the rope Mr. Roberts had placed himself in 
the corner of the shaft, with his face to the rock, 
awaiting what he firmly believed his instant death. 
There they found him with masses of rock piled 
around him. It is this cool, deliberate recognizing 
and facing danger and death that excites our ad- 
miration infinitely more than that callous indiffer- 
ence or rash impetuosity that rushes headlong to its 
fate. Such acts of self-sacrificing bravery reflect 
honor on Christianity and human nature. 


SKETCH XVIII. 


Brother Retallic and the Burglar. 

* “ Here lies a man, who in his day 

Could earn a penny any way. 

Could mend a watch, a clock, or gun. 

And preach a sermon when ’twas done.” 

Such was a part of the epitaph which the wags 
of Liskeard positively declared should be carved on 
the headstone of one of their most respected towns- 
men, Mr. William Retallic, who in the early days of 
the nineteenth century carried on business in Liskeard 
as ironmonger, gunsmith, watch and clock maker, 
land surveyor, and civil engineer. He was also an 
able and zealous Methodist local preacher, and accord- 
ing to the account I had of him from my father, 
who as a young man was well acquainted with him, 
and accompanied him in some of his surveying ex- 
peditions, he was a man of a genial, affable temper- 
ament, with a large fund of humor, which expressed 
itself sometimes in a rather forcible manner. 

187 


i88 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


Mr. Retallic’s business occupied a rather exten- 
sive premises in the heart of the town, and in its 
various branches employed a considerable number 
of men, among whom was a certain ^^smart Alec’* 
sort of a man named Achan Polgrab. Mr. Retallic 
one day made the unpleasant discovery that he had 
been robbed. The premises had been entered, evi- 
dently by some one who knew his way about, and 
several small articles carried off. This was repeated 
several times, and Mr. Retallic naturally grew un- 
easy. Whatever steps he took in the way of inquiry 
or investigation, he failed to locate either the thief 
or the property. Two things, however, were plain 
to him; one was this, that the rascal, whoever he 
was, was well acquainted with the premises, and also 
that he was tolerably well aware of Mr. Retallic's 
movements. If Mr. Retallic staid up and kept 
watch, the rogue seemed to know by some sort of 
instinct that he was there, and kept away. Then 
after a decent interval, when Mr. Retallic’s suspic- 
ions had been somewhat lulled, the depredations 
were repeated. So things went on until Mr. Re- 
tallic’s mechanical genius came to his assistance. 

Mr. Retallic’s store was a three-storied build- 
ing fronting on one of the main streets. At the 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 189 

back was a yard inclosed with a high brick wall with 
large double doors opening into a lane. In one of 
those doors was a small wicket, just large enough to 
admit a man, and was used as a means of egress 
from the building. Projecting from the upper story 
of the building was a crane or derrick, used for 
hoisting heavy goods. This crane was so con- 
structed as to swing over the yard and roadway. 
One dark evening, after the men had left, Mr. Re- 
tallic spent some time in this yard adjusting some 
mysterious mechanical contrivance, from which a 
well-greased rope was roved through the pulley at 
the point of the crane, the other end being well 
weighted with iron. Having completed these ar- 
rangements, Brother Retallic retired to his sitting- 
room, carefully closed the shutters, lit his lamp — 
there was no gas used in Liskeard at that time — 
placed his lantern in a convenient position, and tak- 
ing a week old Times newspaper, which had just 
come in by the London mail, he prepared to await 
developments. 

An hour may have passed, when he was aroused 
from his study of the news by shouts and cries of 
distress from the back yard. “Help! quick! Let 
go! Where be I goin’? I han’t done noboddy any 


190 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


’arm. Oh-h-h-h my-y-y!” And more to the same 
effect. Suspecting something was wrong, or rather 
right, Brother Retallic took his lantern and stepped 
quietly into the back yard. 

Now it so happened that evening that while Mr. 
Retallic was deep in the perusal of Lord John Rus- 
sell’s speech on the Reform Bill that Achan Polgrab, 
having important business of a private nature on his 
hands and a bunch of keys of peculiar construction 
in his pocket, was creeping stealthily and carefully 
along the lane at the back of the stores. Arriving 
at the wicket he selected one of the keys, and quietly 
opening the door he stepped inside. Suddenly his 
foot struck something, and he fell heavily forward. 
At the same moment something gripped his left leg 
and lifted him from the ground. His fall had par- 
tially stunned him, and on regaining consciousness 
his first thought was naturally the inquiry. What 
had happened? If his fall had really killed him, and 
in that brief period of unconsciousness he had really 
departed this life, the nature of his nocturnal errand 
scarcely warranted the idea that his course would 
be in a heavenward direction. Yet here he was 
going up with every convulsive struggle. But if the 
master he served had really got him, perhaps the 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


191 

master he robbed might help him. So Achan yelled. 
Achan shouted, and in a short time — but what 
seemed to him about a year and a half — a door 
opened down below, the light of a lantern gleamed 
through the darkness, and about twenty feet below 
where he was dangling head downward there came 
the cheery and welcome voice of Brother Retallic: 
‘'Hullo ! Who 's there ? What ’s the matter ?” 

“It ’s me, sir. Achan Polgrab,’^ was the reply. 

“Why, Achan \” exclaimed that gentleman. 
“What are you doing up there, and where are you 
going at this time of the night?” 

“I ’m hanged if I know, sir,” replied the terrified 
burglar, who thought he detected the slightest sus- 
picion of banter in his master’s tone. There was 
not the slightest doubt as to his being hanged, al- 
though perhaps not precisely in the way Jack Ketch 
would have performed the business. 

Brother Retallic was a merciful man, and having 
no wish to inflict more punishment on poor Achan 
than the circumstances of the case demanded, he 
proceeded very deliberately to release him from his 
state of mental and physical suspense. Having after 
a while got him in the yard right end up, he read 
him homily on the text, “The way of transgressors 


192 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


is hard,” giving him warning at the same time that 
unless he set about amending his ways he might 
hang some day in the regulation manner; that is, 
with his head upward instead of downward. Hav- 
ing dismissed the humiliated Polgrab, he retired to 
enjoy a hearty laugh over his night’s adventures. 
Meanwhile Achan’s muttered exclamations as he 
wended his way homeward through the streets and 
lanes of Liskeard were somewhat after the pattern 
of Miles Stan dish, “Sometimes it seemed like a 
prayer, and sometimes it sounded like swearing.” 


N 


SKETCH XIX. 


Brother Retaeuc and the “Highwayman/" 

It was a bright, clear, windy morning early in 
March, i88 — . It was a Sunday morning, and Mr. 
Retallic was on his way to take his morning 
and evening preaching appointments at Bolventor. 
Memories crowd thickly around the traveler who 
takes either of those roads, whether the road from 
Liskeard to Altarnun, or from Altarnun to Bodmin 
via Bolventor. The country is rich in legendary 
and historical associations above, and in mineral 
deposits below. It is on those western moors at 
Dosmary Pool that Tennyson has placed that mem- 
orable scene in the “passing of Arthur” when on his 
way from his terrible defeat at “Slaughter Bridge,"" 
near Camelford, where he had met his unnatural 
nephew, Mordred, and eluding his pursuers in the 
dense fog that prevailed he crossed the pools, and 
cast away his “brand Excalibur,"" finding his way 

13 193 


194 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


ultimately to Glastonbury in Somersetshire, where 
in the friendly shelter of the monastery and nursed 
by the Christian monks he sank under his wounds 
and misfortunes. It was Dosmary Pool that the 
troublesome spirit of Tregeagle was condemned to 
dip dry with a perforated limpet shell, and if it be 
true that 

“ Satan finds some mischief still 
For idle hands to do,” 

then this task, together with the other imposition — 
that of binding the sand of the Loc Pool near Hel- 
ston in bundles — must have provided the nocturnal 
wanderer with ample employment and kept him well 
out of mischief. On this stretch of moorland be- 
tween Red Gate and Fursnooth Down there stands 
a curious granite obelisk, or rather two of them, 
inscribed with ancient Roman characters, which 
Carew, in his ‘‘Survey of Cornwall,” informs us 
marks the resting-place of a British prince, Doni- 
wert. It was across those moors in the early days 
of the great civil war, January, 1643, that Sir Bevil 
Granville with his Cornishmen retired before the 
Parliamentarians under Ruthven, Governor of Ply- 
mouth, his army gradually receiving fresh accessions 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


195 


until he was able to turn on his pursuer at Braddock 
Down and send him flying back through Liskeard 
and Quethiock to Saltash, and thence to Plymouth. 
It was on the Caradon Hills that King Charles I 
encamped with his army in 1644, while on his way 
to inflict another defeat on the Parliamentarians on 
the ill-fated Braddock Down, and send the unfortu- 
nate Earl of Essex back to Plymouth by way of 
Fowey. Here Colonel Skippon with the Parlia- 
mentary Cavalry retreated eastward after the battle, 
escaping on that occasion to receive a wound at 
Naseby the following June, and to see a repetition 
of the Braddock Down disaster averted by the timely 
arrival of General Cromwell. 

It was over those moors that John Wesley and 
his devoted lay preachers, John Nelson and Thomas 
Maxwell, traveled from village to village and town 
to town preaching the gospel, and for want of better 
sustenance eating blackberries and generally faring 
as best they could, followed by generation after gen- 
eration of preachers, clerical and “lay f* for the read- 
ers of this book will have noticed by this time that 
the mere fact of being a “layman” does not dis- 
qualify a man from preaching in England, and there 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


196 

at any rate the prophecy is being fulfilled; viz., 
that “Many shall run to and fro and knowledge shall 
be increased.” (Dan. xii, 4.) 

But Brother Retallic’s mind was chiefly occupied 
with the message he was charged to deliver to the 
people at Bolventor as he rode out of Liskeard that 
morning, the brisk, cold east wind giving fresh elas- 
ticity to his usually buoyant, joyous nature. He had 
left the cultivated land beyond the town, and was 
trotting gently across St. Cleer Down when he sud- 
denly pulled up his horse and uttered a startled ex- 
clamation. The turf beside the road was trampled. 
There was blood in the wheel ruts; the dust was 
blood-stained. There had evidently been a desperate 
struggle on that spot, and that quite recently. 

“What has happened on the Down?” he asked 
the first man he met on entering St. Cleer village. 

“Why! Did not the news get to Tiskeard last 
night, Mr. Retallic?” was the reply. 

“No;” he had not heard anything. “What 
was it?” 

“Why, Mr. Trerakem returning from Tiskeard 
market last night was set upon by two men out on 
the Down. He was robbed of everything he had 
that was worth stealing, and because he showed fight 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES 


197 

like a man they nearly killed him. He ’s a big man, 
too, is Mr. Trerakem, and a real nice gentleman to 
work for,” continued the man. ^‘You know Mr. 
Trerakem, of course, Mr. Retallic.” 

“Yes.” Brother Retallic knew him well, and sym- 
pathy for his friend was mingled with just a little 
concern for his own safety. He was not by any 
means a coward ; but the prospect of returning alone 
after night over that dreary moorland was not by 
any means a cheerful one. 

There were good congregations at Bolventor 
both morning and evening that Sunday. Brother 
Retallic was deservedly popular. He was a well- 
read man, and his natural vivacity being kept well 
under control by high and holy thought and purpose, 
there was a peculiar blending of sprightliness and 
seriousness in his discourse, that rendered it pecul- 
iarly fascinating to all who heard him. Oliver 
Goldsmith’s description of the “village preacher” 
would to a great extent have applied to Brother 
Retallic : 

“ Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, 

And some who came to mock remained to pray.” 

“Are you armed, Mr. Retallic?” inquired the 
friend who brought his horse at the close of the 


198 rbal life sketches . 

evening service. “It seems there are some desperate 
characters down Liskeard way.” 

“No! I never go armed,” was the reply, as the 
preacher sprang lightly into the saddle. 

“Then you had better take this,” handing him 
a broom handle, adding, “You may find it handy.” 

When Mrs. Retallic set out for chapel that morn- 
ing she noticed that something unusual had hap- 
pened. Passing along the Parade she observed a 
group of men and a few women standing around the 
“bull post,” another crowd stood around the doors 
of the “London Inn” and the “Fountain.” There 
was something of an exciting nature under discus- 
sion, as she inferred from the words, “Highway rob- 
bery,” “Nearly killed,” “Lot of blood,” “Cowardly 
rascals,” etc. 

Arriving at the chapel door she was met by two 
or three friends, who stepped out from the crowd 
and greeted her with: “Good morning, Mrs. Re- 
tallic. Where is Mr. Retallic ‘planned' to-day?” 

“He 's gone over to Bolventor,” was the reply. 

“He has a cold ride this morning?” 

“Yes, and rather a dangerous one.” 

“I suppose you have heard what happened on 
St. Cleer Down last night ?” And then followed the 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


199 


story of how Mr. Trerakem had been attacked by 
a gang of ruffians, and after losing a quantity of 
blood had been carried home to his farm in Linkin- 
horne Parish by the neighbors who had found him, 
and that the scoundrels who had done the foul deed 
were still at large and supposed to be still lurking in 
the neighborhood, possibly in the woods below Tre- 
marcoombe or over at Draynes. 

No ; she had not heard of it, and the news filled 
her with considerable uneasiness. She tried hard to 
concentrate her thoughts on the service, but thoughts 
of Mr. Retallic’s danger kept forcing themselves on 
her mind, and although Brother Polrousem, who 
had come over from Warleggan that morning, 
preached an excellent sermon from the text, “The 
steps of a good man are ordered of the Lord,^' vis- 
ions of armed men springing from behind furze 
bushes, knocking a lonely traveler from his horse, 
beating him insensible, and possibly throwing him 
down an old unusued mine shaft, would keep float- 
ing before her mind. Yes, Mrs. Retallic was un- 
easy, as many a preacher’s wife has been and is every 
Sunday evening when the preacher has to face ten 
or fifteen miles of rough and stormy road after the 
evening service, rewarded only by the consciousness 


200 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


that he has tried faithfully to discharge his duty to 
his God and his fellow-men, and as he stumbles 
along in the darkness repeating to himself : 

“ It is the way the Master went, 

Should not the servant tread it still?” 

As the day wore on her uneasiness increased, and 
although she would try to hope sometimes that Mr. 
Retallic would get a “supply” for the evening and 
come home early in the afternoon, she knew the 
probabilities were very much against such a thing 
occurring. 

There was no one at Bolventor or in the neigh- 
borhood who would be considered “an accredited 
substitute” for Mr. Retallic, and that gentleman had 
too much self-respect to shirk his duty without some 
really good cause. It was toward evening that an 
excellent idea occurred to her. There was John 
Penvalleras, one of Mr. Retallic’s most trusted work- 
men, frank, clear-eyed, open-faced, straightforward 
in all his actions, deeply attached to his master, and 
deeply concerned in his master’s interests, with 
strong limbs, and as a sequel will show, fortunately 
for him, a thick skull. Before his conversion John 
had been a noted cudgel player and wrestler ; in fact, 
almost a match for Sampson Poldrasher of Queth- 


REAL LIEB SKETCHES. 


201 


ioc. John should go out as far at any rate as St. 
Cleer Down, or possibly beyond St. Cleer “Church- 
town, ’’ and accompany Mr. Retallic home. 

Mr. Penvalleras most readily acceded to the pro- 
posal. It was now a long time since he had been 
in a “row,’’ and his great, strong muscles literally 
quivered with excitement at the bare idea of en- 
countering two or three of those despicable footpads 
on an open common, where he would have plenty of 
room for his strength. John accordingly repaired 
to his cottage, and from the bacon rack in the kitchen 
he took down his great ground ash cudgel, which 
had done duty in many a previous encounter. Then 
bidding his wife good-bye and telling her not to 
bother about him, he set out. 

Half-past eight is announced by the faint boom 
of the gun which is fired from the citadel at Ply- 
mouth to notify the soldiers who were out on 
“leave” to get to their quarters by nine o’clock, and 
which is borne by the east wind across the inter- 
vening country, reaches Mr. Penvalleras as, armed 
with his cudgel, he leaves Tiskeard heading north- 
east by north. 

It also reaches Mr. Retallic as, armed with his 
broom-handle, he leaves Bolventor, heading south- 


202 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


west by south. There is trouble in the air! There 
will be a “hot time” on St. Cleer Down to-night. 

The stillness of the village street is broken by 
the rapid hoof-beat as a horseman gallops through 
St. Cleer Churchtown broomstick in hand, and 
ready for the fray, while out on the down a foot- 
man strides along, equally vigilant and equally well 
armed. The horseman approaches. The footman 
springs forward and catches at the bridle. “Hi ! 
stop! Mr. Ret!” “Cut seven,” delivered with ter- 
rible force and precision lays him low, and Mr. Re- 
tallic, thankful for his escape, gallops on. 

When some minutes later Mr. Penvalleras re- 
gained consciousness and heard the said hoof beats 
growing fainter in the direction of Liskeard, his first 
thought was, that if that were really his master, as 
he had no doubt it was, it was to say the least mis- 
taken kindness to undertake a long walk after night- 
fall to protect a man who could wield a club in that 
style, and if Mr. Retallic’s words were in any pro- 
portion to the weight of his blows, then the moral 
barometer at Bolventor would be likely to go up 
several degrees every time he was “planned” there. 

Half-past ten, two women in Liskeard anx- 
iously await the return of their husbands, one of 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


203 


whom rushes in filled with gratitude for what he con- 
siders a narrow escape from robbery, perhaps some- 
thing worse, which feeling is mingled with some- 
thing savoring of exultation over a victory where 
the cavalry had broken through the serried ranks of 
foot. Half an hour later the other husband arrives, 
his frontal, occipital, parietal, and all other bones 
fortunately intact, but with the surrounding tissues 
abnormally enlarged, and an expression of counte- 
nance where vexation and amusement are curiously 
blended, explaining how that for once in his life he 
had been caught off his guard and ingloriously van- 
quished, almost annihilated. 

Monday morning, two men meet in Mr. Re- 
tallic's store. There is a hearty apology on the part 
of one ; an equally hearty response on the part of the 
other, and a hearty laugh on the part of both as the 
previous night’s experiences are recounted. But at 
the same time it must be confessed that one of the 
men cherishes the deep-seated resolve that in his 
future journeys the other shall rely for protection 
on a merciful Providence and any weapon he can lay 
his hands on, giving preference to broomsticks. 


SKETCH XX. 

Brothe:r Trrrakrm as a Detrctiv^. 

“Why I can teach thee, cousin, to command the devil.” 

“ And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil 
By telling truth ; tell truth, and shame the devil. 

If thou hast power to raise him, bring him hither. 

And I ’ll be sworn I have power to shame him hence. 

O, while you live, tell truth and shame the devil.” 

— I Henry IV, Act III, Scene i. 

Brother Trerakem was bothered. But ycm 
naturally ask, Who was Brother Trerakem? Well, 
then, Brother Trerakem was an intimate friend of 
Brother Retallic, whom he closely resembled in some 
particulars, one of which was his intense love of fun 
and his original methods of making it. He also par- 
took of .his friend’s kindliness of heart and cheeri- 
ness of disposition. A shrewd business man was 
Brother Trerakem, a member of the Methodist 
Church, or “Society” as it was then called, whose 
house was the home of the preachers, “traveling” 
204 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


205 


and *^local/’ who came that way. Mr. Trerakem 
was a farmer in that part of Linkinhorne which lies 
east of the Lynher close to North Hill Parish. He 
was born in 1777, and died, according to the inscrip- 
tion on his headstone, in 1852. Consequently in the 
three-quarters of a century which he spent in this 
world he saw many changes, political, social, and 
moral. 

During his childhood the American Colonists 
were engaged in struggling for their independence. 
As a young man he shared in the horror which per- 
vaded the British Nation at the news of the awful 
scenes enacted in France in connection with the first 
Revolution. I can easily picture him as a boy of 
sixteen walking through the fields above Upton 
Cross looking after the sheep. It is a bright, breezy 
Sunday morning in the middle of June, and the 
young farmer pauses from time to time to listen to a 
faint distant rumble borne across the hills on the east 
wind, and apparently coming from the Devonshire 
Coast. 

The following Wednesday he is in Callington 
market, and hears from some Plymouth cattle deal- 
ers that a French frigate. La Nymphe, had been 
brought into Plymouth Sound by His Majesty’s 


2o6 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


frigate Cleopatra, which on beating up channel 
against the light east wind had met the French ves- 
sel running down before the wind, and after a fight 
lasting a couple of hours had captured her and 
brought her into port.* 

I see by his family register, kept on a fly-leaf of 
his Bible, that his eldest son was born on the 2ist 
day of October, 1805, the day on which the battle 
of Trafalgar was fought, and another entry made 
in 1814 reads: ‘Teace and plenty after twenty-two 
years’ war with France.” He saw the Reform of 
1832, the abolition of slavery, and the obnoxious 
‘‘Corn laws,” and outlived the Duke of Wellington 
by about a couple of months. 

I have just stated that he was bothered. The 
fact is, he had been robbed — not by footpads on St. 
Cleer Down ; this time he had reason to fear his foes 
were those of his own household. It was hay har- 
vest. He had been over to Liskeard that morning, 
and had disposed of some live stock, hurrying home 
as fast as he could to superintend the hay saving. 
He had taken his leather purse, containing fifty 
pounds in gold, from his pocket and laid in on the 

* This action was fought off the start point on Sunday morning, 
June 18, 1793. I have seen the cap of liberty carried at the mast head 
of La Nymphe on that occasion. — F, I. V. 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


207 

dresser. He was so busily engaged during the next 
few hours that any thought of danger lurking around 
his purse never occurred to him ; but on coming back 
to the house in the evening he discovered to his dis- 
may that the purse had disappeared. No strangers 
had been seen around the premises, and although he 
closely questioned every one on the farm he could 
get no clue whatever that would point to where it 
went. What really bothered him was the conviction 
that some one belonging to his household was the 
guilty party. But who? and how was the guilty 
party to be detected ? That was the question. One 
thing was tolerably certain. The money had not as 
yet been carried off the farm, but would be at the 
first opportunity, so whatever steps he took toward 
detecting the crime and discovering the money must 
be taken immediately. I have already referred to 
the parish apprenticeship system. There were two 
^‘apprentices’^ on Mr. Trerakem’s farm. They were 
Robert Penruffit, a bright, active, honest youngster of 
about fourteen or fifteen, and Betsy Polgrab, a sly, 
cunning, and at the same time rather sullen and re- 
served girl, a year or two younger. When farmer 
Trerakem called the farm hands together in the 
kitchen and questioned them on the matter, some- 


2o8 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


thing in the girl’s manner in some unaccountable 
way led him to fix his suspicions on her; but from 
previous experience of that stolid, sullen nature he 
knew how difficult would be the task of extorting 
a confession. However, he determined to try. One 
of his workmen was a shrewd, honest fellow named 
Solomon Polketchon. This man Brother Trerakem 
called aside and took into his confidence. There 
happended to be lying about the place an old cannon- 
ball, which had been picked up in one of the fields 
and which was probably a relic of the civil wars. 
This ball with a heavy chain Polketchon was in- 
structed to take quietly upstairs into the room over 
the parlor and await a signal agreed on, and then 
act promptly and effectively. Giving Polketchon 
reasonable time to complete his arrangements, Mr. 
Trerakem entered the kitchen and sternly ordered 
the two apprentices into the parlor and directed them 
to stand in the middle of the floor. He then took a 
piece of chalk from this pocket, and, making a circle 
around their feet, commanded them not to move 
outside it. Seating himself at the table, he opened 
his large family Bible and proceeded to read all the 
passages he could find bearing on the sin of lying 
and stealing, accompanying the same with strong 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


209 

exhortation with rather lurid applications to the 
case in point. 

Assuring his audience that the truth of the mat- 
ter was known and would surely be brought to light, 
he rose to his feet, and again producing the chalk he 
proceeded to make a number of mysterious figures 
on the floor— squares, circles, triangles, etc. — mut- 
tering at the same time scraps of Latin, French, etc., 
sense and nonsense, mostly the latter. Then he sol- 
emnly addressed them: 

“Robert Penruffit, did you take that money ?’’ 

Firmly and without the slightest hesitation came 
the answer: “No, sir, I deddn’t.” 

“Betsy Polgrab, did you take that money?'’ 

Hesitatingly and with her eyes wandering any- 
where but in the direction of her master the girl re- 
plied : “N — n — no, sir." 

“That 's once/' said Brother Trerakem. He re- 
turned to the table. There was more reading and ex- 
hortation. There was more chalking on the floor, 
and more muttering of French and Latin. Again 
he questioned them : 

“Robert Penruffit, did you take that money ?" 

“No, maister ; 'pon my soul, I ded not, sir." 

“Betsy Polgrab, did you take that money?" 

14 


210 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


Tremblingly, and with eyes fixed on the floor, the 
poor girl reiterated her denial. 

“That ’s twice I” said Brother Trerakem. Again 
was the process repeated, with precisely the same re- 
sult. An emphatic, almost indignant denial on the 
part of the boy, and a timid, faltering one from the 
girl. 

‘‘That 's three times/' said Mr. Trerakem. There 
was a solemn pause. Then Mr. Trerakem’s foot de- 
scended heavily on the floor three times, a dead 
silence between each. At the third stamp there 
came a tremendous “Whump” on the floor overhead, 
which appeared to shake the farmhouse to its foun- 
dations. “Whump! Thump! Bang!” the sounds 
were repeated, accompanied by an ominous clank- 
ing of chains and other unearthly sounds. There 
was a piercing shriek from the terrified Betsy: 

“Oh — hhh! Maister! Daan’t ee let the devvul 
carry me away, sir ! I tooked the munny, sir. ’T es 
out in the gaarden, sir, in a rannie’s [wren’s] nest.” 

“Go out and fetch it at once,” sternly commanded 
her master. 

The clanking of chains ceased. The rolling and 
rumbling died away as poor Betsy, looking hur- 
riedly and suspiciously around her at every step, as 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


2II 


if expecting to see the ^‘devvul” following her, 
rushed to the bottom of the '‘gaarden,’’ and, taking 
the bag of gold from its hiding-place in the ^Vannie’s 
nest,’’ she returned to the house and safely delivered 
it to her master. 

Betsy was forgiven, and Mr. Polketchon was 
suitably rewarded ; but the opinion prevailed in that 
neighborhood that Mr. Trerakem was not exactly a 
man to be trifled with. 


SKETCH XXL 

How Brother Tom Penaqua Went to Heaven. 

Some years ago I was conducting the morning 
service in the Wesleyan Chapel at Landulph's, when 
I noticed a venerable white-haired gentleman pres- 
ent, who was afterwards introduced to me as the 

Rev. Mr. C , a Congregational minister of many 

years’ standing. I expressed the genuine pleasure 
I felt at making his acquaintance; as my mother, 
who for nearly fifty years previous to her death 
had been a member of his sect, had given me some 
particulars of Mr. C ’s early life, the most inter- 

esting of which was that his conversion was due to 
the blessing of God on the ministrations of the hero 
of this story, Brother Thomas Penaqua. 

Brother Penaqua’s most prominent character- 
istics appear to have been his eccentricity, concern- 
ing which trait many stories are told, which, how- 
ever, are scarcely worth repeating ; his deep, earnest 
piety, and his unflagging thrift and industry. 


212 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


213 

There was very little humor in Tom. Life ap- 
peared altogether too serious a matter to be wasted 
in humorous vagaries or flights of imagination. Win- 
ning souls and sovereigns constituted his life's work, 
and by all accounts he succeeded fairly well on both 
lines. Tom had probably never read Bobbie Burns’s 
poetry. If he had he would have most heartily in- 
dorsed the sentiments expressed in his ‘‘Advice to 
a Young Friend:”' 

“ To win Dame Fortune’s golden smile, 
Assiduous wait upon her, 

And gather gear by every wile 
That ’s justified by honor. 

Not for to hide it in a hedge, 

Not for a train attendant; 

But for the glorious privilege 
Of being independent.” 

I remember Tom’s garden, situated in a sheltered, 
secluded nook on the Tamar, where he toiled by day, 
and the tiny cottage overhung by cherry-trees of 
probably a hundred years’ standing. The cottage it- 
self had the appearance of being much older. But 
during the thirty odd years I knew the place, neither 
the trees nor the cottage had altered materially. 
Here, in a spot so secluded that a hermit might have 
envied its possessor, Tom studied his Bible by night. 


214 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


and from the little quay at foot of his garden he reg- 
ularly shipped his “marketing” on the boat. It was 
before the days of steam navigation on the Tamar, 
and in the season he regularly unloaded his cargoes 
of street-sweepings, known as “dock dung,” for 
manuring his land. On many a dark night I have 
seen the light twinkling in the little dormer window 
in the roof. Tom’s brother-in-law and successor in 
the business was a local preacher. On many occa- 
sions have I climbed the hills up which Tom used 
to toil on his way to his Sunday morning appoint- 
ments, or the week-night prayer-meeting. Tom’s life 
was characterized by quiet, unostentatious activity, 
broken only by two episodes: one being his falling 
deeply in love with Miss Ann Pensolid, to whom ref- 
erence has already been made, and his offer of mar- 
riage, which was politely but firmly declined; the 
other being the rather exciting adventure I am about 
to relate. 

The country around Tom’s residence was rich in 
minerals ; silver lead being predominant. Many 
mines were working at that time, and there were 
also a number of abandoned workings. Centuries 
ago “adit” levels were driven into the hills, and the 
“backs” of the “lodes” “stoped” to such a height 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


2IS 

as often to leave a thin crust of earth and rock be- 
tween the innocent-looking hillside, and fifty or one 
hundred feet of a jagged and rugged rocky chasm 
below. It was a week-night, and Tom had been to 
the prayer-meeting at “Cots,” where for some time 
previous a good work had been going on among the 
miners and the men employed on the smelting works. 
There had been a good service, and the souls of those 
present had been stirred by an unseen but none the 
less tremendous power. 

Brother Penaqua left the meeting in a very hope- 
ful and very joyful frame of mind. Crossing the 
Beeralston Road near Pit-in-the-lane he took the 
footpath leading to Lockeridge and Whitsom. Sud- 
denly he was startled by a loud crashing and rum- 
bling under his feet. What did this mean? Had 
the end of the world, respecting which he had been 
so earnestly warning sinners that night, really come ? 

It had at any rate found him prepared. Like a 
flash came the glorious words : “The eternal God is 
thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.” 

The ground was sinking under his feet; the 
crashing and rumbling increased. Again the prom- 
ise: “For the mountains shall depart, and the hills 
be removed; but my kindness shall not depart from 


2i6 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


thee ; neither shall my covenant of peace be removed, 
saith the Lord that hath mercy on thee.’’ 

Down still deeper, carried gradually by the slowly 
descending mass of rock and earth, into intense and 
pitchy darkness. ''Yea, though I walk through the 
valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil ; for 
thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff, they com- 
fort me.” Then Brother Penaqua lost consciousness. 
How long he remained unconscious he never knew. 
He only remembered that during the hours that fol- 
lowed he was intensely happy, and the impression 
was strong on his mind that he was in the transition 
stage between earth and heaven. Then daylight 
broke, and with it came the conviction that it was 
the light of the eternal world, "The city that hath 
foundations.” 

"Arise! Shine! for thy light is come; for the 
glory of the Lord is risen upon thee,” cried Brother 
Penaqua. 

Then came the sound of bells. Surely the bells of 
the celestial city, thought Brother Penaqua. But no ! 
That sounds too much like the bell of South Hove 
mine. Brother Penaqua was prepared to admit that 
by a miracle of grace "Cap’n” Jinn Sprague might 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


217 

be in heaven ; but he could not by any means account 
for his taking his mine-bell with him. 

“Cling, clang! Cling, clang! Cling, clang! 
Cling, clang !’’ There go the familiar sounds of 
Lockeridge and Whitsom, Farze Hill and Gully 
Town calling up the night “core” men, and calling 
down the forenoon “core” men to take their places. 
Bitter disappointment! He was still on earth, this 
busy, toiling world, or, rather, he was a hundred feet 
or so below the surface of the world of fields and 
market gardens. He was simply in a “gannis,” and 
he must use every means in his power to get out. 
Then pulling himself together for a mighty effort, 
he shouted. He shouted until he attracted the at- 
tention of some of the night “core” men aforesaid. 
Ropes were quickly brought from Lockeridge, and 
Brother Tom Penaqua was hauled to the surface. 
Somewhat to his disappointment, it must be con- 
fessed, he did not go to heaven just then. He was 
spared for some years to save more sovereigns and, 
instrumentally, more souls; and when he finally 
passed away from this world, it was amid more 
comfortable surroundings than the bottom of an old 


mine. 


SKETCH XXII. 


The) Re:claimkd InfideiIv. 

“For thy name’s sake, O Lord, pardon mine in- 
iquity; for it is great.” (Psa. xxv, 2.) 

The above was the text from which Mr. William 
Nanscawen was preaching in the old chapel at Craft- 
hole one Sunday morning in i86 — ; and as the power 
came over him, such a power as, he afterward told 
me, he had never experienced before; and terrible 
glorious truths were being presented to his mind and 
echoing through the old building in that refined but 
sonorous manner which Mr. Nanscawen knew so 
well how to command, and which after the lapse of 
so many years I can hear so distinctly. There was 
a sound of sobbing heard in the little end gallery, 
where a strong man was trying to repress his emo- 
tion, but trying in vain. That afternoon two men 
knelt together in the parlor of a farmhouse at Shev- 
iock, and after a struggle between his better nature 
218 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


219 


and his deepseated convictions on the one side and 
his unbelief on the other, the preacher was delighted 
to hear his companion express the hope that his in- 
iquity was pardoned and his sin was covered. 

But I must give some account of those two 
men, both esteemed friends of mine ; and with them 
is associated the name of another, who in his time 
exerted a considerable influence on those with whom 
he was brought into contact.* 

Mr. William Nanscawen, who died a few weeks 
before I left Cornwall, was what is known in that 
part of England as a “gentleman farmer.’’ His 
residence was beautifully situated near the head of 
the valley leading down to Kingsmill and Eandulph, 
described in a former sketch. He was also a near 
neighbor of “Squire” Symons, whose son. General 
Sir William Penn Symons, fell at Tolana Hill in the 
early part of the African war. 

The man on whom his preaching that morning 
had produced such an effect was Mr. John Davey, 
founder of the firm of Davey, Sleep and Company, 
agricultural implement makers. When quite a young 

* While conducting a religious service in one of the Liverpool 
lodging-houses in 1892, I mentioned the name of Thomas Cooper, 
when from different parts of the room came the exclamation, “We 
knew him ! We knew him !” 


220 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


man Mr. Davey had become connected with the 
Wesleyan Methodist Society, and after passing 
through the preliminary stages required by the ‘‘Dis- 
cipline” he had been accepted on “full plan” as a 
local preacher. 

Evil influences, however, had been brought to 
bear on a mind naturally disposed to doubt and cavil 
at disputed points of doctrine, with the result that 
he had lapsed into actual infidelity, and for some 
years previous to this story he had exerted an in- 
fluence around him of a peculiarly dangerous kind. 

Mr. Davey was possessed of a lively, genial tem- 
perament and an agreeable manner, which attracted 
to him crowds of young people, to whom he would 
discourse on infidelity and hold up to ridicule the 
very truths he formerly preached so earnestly. 

The immediate cause of his lapse into infidelity 
was listening to the discourses of Thomas Cooper, 
who died some time in the fall of 1892. Cooper’s 
life had been a singularly eventful one. In the early 
forties he was a Methodist local preacher in one of 
the midland counties. In politics he was an ad- 
vanced Liberal, and the rise of the Chartist move- 
ment found him an earnest advocate of the principles 
contained in the “Great Charter.” His connection 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


221 


with this agitation, however, got him into serious 
trouble. He was arrested, and in company with 
several others, including a Baptist minister, spent 
some time in jail. With his soul embittered by what 
he considered the tyranny and oppression exercised 
by both Church and State, he turned his back on 
religion and directed all his energies to the propa- 
gating of infidelity. In the course of a lecturing 
tour through England he visited Cornwall and was 
brought into contact with Mr. Davey, whose po- 
litical views he found to be somewhat in accordance 
with his own. 

By what particular and peculiar process of rea- 
soning Cooper led Davey to relinquish his faith and 
hope I do not know; but it is a fact that he did so, 
and he entered upon the course I have described. 
Years passed, and Cooper came under better in- 
fluences. Looking at his life’s work calmly and dis- 
passionately, he recoiled from it with horror and 
loathing. Undermining other men’s belief and pull- 
ing down the pillars of their faith; depriving them 
of their hope of a bright future, and giving them 
nothing in exchange, he found to be mean and un- 
satisfactory work. Teaching young people to dis- 
regard the authority of their parents, and to treat 


222 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


with contempt the counsels of their truest friends, 
he saw was loosening the pillars of society; while 
trampling under foot the blood of the covenant was 
a crime, the heinousness of which he could not and 
dared not to estimate. 

Cooper turned again to the God whom he had dis- 
honored, to the Savior he had denied; he sought 
pardon and found it. Then, filled with an honest 
desire to undo as far as possible the evil which he 
had done in the days of his backsliding, he visited 
every town and village where he had given his in- 
fidel lectures, he made known the change that had 
come over him, and set himself to the task of reclaim- 
ing those whom he had led astray. 

He made a particular point of calling on Mr. 
Davey, and tried to win him back; but Cooper the 
Christian found it impossible in this case to undo 
the mischief which Cooper the infidel had done, 
and for years Davey continued to walk in the way 
of the ungodly and to sit in the seat of the scornful. 

There was one tie, however, which bound him 
to his former life; this was the strong attachment 
which had always existed between himself and Mr. 
William Nanscawen, and it was this friendship 
which was afterwards used as a means to bring him 


RBAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


223 


back to the Master he had forsaken. Scoffing at all 
the ordinances of religion at other times, he always 
attended the services when he found that his former 
friend and fellow-worker was appointed to preach. 

It was this that had led him into the chapel that 
morning. 

Mr. Davey rejoined the society at Crafthole, 
and after a while his name reappeared on the “plan.” 
He was a most acceptable local preacher, with an 
earnest, persuasive manner. There were indications 
of a deep undercurrent of thought and feeling that 
made it evident even to those unacquainted with his 
past history that the preacher had passed through 
some terrible experience. I can most vividly recall, 
after a lapse of thirty years, the tone of voice in 
which he read the hymn commencing : 

“ Glorious Savior of my soul 
I lift it up to thee,” 

and the impression it made on me at the time. I 
also remember one Sunday in October, 1874, I had 
conducted the morning service at Crafthole. This 
was my first service in the chapel, and among the 
many faces which were strange to me there was one 
that was familiar, and that was Mr. Davey^s ; and I 
must say that his presence, knowing the kindly in- 


224 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


terest he had always taken in me, was a very con- 
siderable help to me in overcoming a nervousness 
which was natural under the cimcumstances. I was 
spending the interval between the services with the 
late Mr. Nicholas Roseveare, Senior, when Mr. 
Davey called to solicit my company for a walk along 
the cliffs over Whitsand Bay. I shall never forget 
that stroll. It was a bright, breezy autumn after- 
noon as we walked, arm in arm, through the fields 
lying to the west of Fort Tregantle, and overlooking 
Port Wrinkle and Downderry, engaged in cheer- 
ful but serious conversation, after which we shook 
hands for the last time. A short time afterward he 
was taken with illness which terminated fatally. 
Whatever wounds his moral nature received by his 
fall, or how deeply the scars remained in his spirit- 
ual nature after his recovery I would not even 
venture to estimate; I can only content myself by 
applying to him the beautiful v/ords of Gray : 

“No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode ; 

There they alike in trembling hope repose, 

The bosom of his Father and his God.” 


SKETCH XXIII. 


The Skeptic's Conversion. 

“The great Creator to revere 

Must sure become the creature ; 

But still the preachin’ cant forbear, 

And e’en the rigid feature; 

Yet ne’er with wits profane to range, 

Be complaisance extended. 

An atheist’s laugh ’s a poor exchange 
For Deity offended.” — Burns. 

Whoever has traveled over the section of the 
Great Western Railway running down through 
Cornwall has not failed to be struck with the 
exquisite beauty of the scenery around St. Ger- 
mans Station, and the extreme neatness and pic- 
turesqueness of the station itself. In one of these 
sketches I give a description of the old town and 
its surroundings ; and the railway station is in com- 
plete harmony with it all. 

There are no ‘Vacant lots’" here ; not an inch of 

15 225 


226 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


space on which an empty meat-tin could possibly 
find a ten-minutes' resting-place. 

Every corner is a flower-bed glowing with as- 
ters, carnations, and ten- week stocks. Fuchsias, 
wallflowers, and periwinkles cling to crevices in the 
cuttings, while the windows of the booking-office and 
the stationmaster’s cottage glow with geraniums, cal- 
ceolarias, and verbenas. Running across the long 
viaduct over the Lyncher, and admiring as you pass 
the delightful scenery around you; passing, as you 
enter the station, the remains of the old farmhouse 
of Caddenbeake, formerly St. Germans Monastery, 
you imagine yourself entering the well-laid-out ap- 
proach to a gentleman’s parterre instead of a station 
on the Great Western Railway. Whoever has had 
occasion at any time during the past three or four 
and twenty years to get off the train and spend half 
an hour here has availed himself of the opportunity 
of having a chat with that most genial and hearty 
of all stationmasters, my friend (I write it with gen- 
uine pleasure) Mr. Richard Priest. That his posi- 
tion is no sinecure will be taken for granted. That 
it requires a cool, level-headed man to fill it will 
appear evident to every one in any degree acquainted 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


227 

with railway work when I have stated a few partic- 
ulars. 

A single track carrying a heavy traffic, a rather 
steep grade, a deep-cutting and a sharp curve on one 
side, with another curve and a long viaduct on the 
other, the stationmaster’s eyes have to be kept pretty 
well open, and his hand and brain tolerably active 
during the long hours he is on duty. Those who 
have known Mr. Priest for the past ten or twelve 
years have noticed an air of seriousness in his de- 
meanor, which serves to throw his active geniality 
and sprightliness into stronger relief and which con- 
trasts strongly with the levity which fonnerly char- 
acterized his conversation. For Mr. Priest, when I 
first made his acquaintance, was a skeptic, and a 
scoffer at religion, albeit a pleasant man to con- 
verse with as long as the subject of religion was 
avoided. The faculty of viewing things in their 
ludicrous aspect, like nitro-glycerine, may be a val- 
uable possession in the hands of a skillful operator; 
but handled clumsily and with little regard to times 
and seasons and objects, is both disagreeable and 
dangerous. This faculty Mr. Priest possessed to an 
eminent degree and used for its object the most 


228 


REAL LIPB SKETCHES. 


sacred subjects and the most noble characters. He 
carried this to such an extent that he was shunned by 
serious-minded people and dreaded by young Chris- 
tians whose sensitive natures were shocked by irrev- 
erent allusions to what they held in the highest de- 
gree sacred; while those whose prejudices and sym- 
pathies lay in another direction took an intense pleas- 
ure in listening to Mr. Priest’s humorous sallies and 
witnessing the discomfiture of those whose principles 
he was attacking. 

What made Mr. Priest’s conduct all the more 
dangerous was the fact that his attacks on Chris- 
tianity were delivered in the most perfect good hu- 
mor, utterly devoid of all coarseness, vulgarity, and 
sarcasm. So much was this the case that even those 
whose sensibilities were shocked by his apparent ir- 
reverence found it extremely difficult to quarrel with 
him, and I never heard of his making an enemy. 

One Sunday morning, to the surprise of those 
present, Mr. Priest walked into the Wesleyan Chapel 
during the class-meeting and asked permission to re- 
late his experience, which was readily granted. 

A few months previous to Mr. Priest’s appearing 
at the class-meeting a young man named Wyatt had 
been appointed as porter at the station. A smart, 


RHAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


229 


intelligent young fellow, with remarkably quiet, un- 
obtrusive manners, a member of the Methodist 
Church, and a local preacher, his steady, consistent 
attention to his duties, the calm and unruffled man- 
ner in which he had borne his chief’s attacks on his 
religion, his devotion to the cause of truth and the 
Master he served, created a profound impression 
on the mind of the stationmaster, and the latter be- 
gan to review his past and present line of conduct 
in the light of reason. In the first place, Christianity 
was either true or false, and he found it hard to un- 
derstand how a false religion, or an empty form of 
beliefs, could produce such a life as Wyatt was liv- 
ing ; and if it were really true, then he was commit- 
ting a series of most unjustifiable follies by hold- 
ing it up to ridicule in the way he did. In any 
case his conduct in regard to it was grossly incon- 
sistent. He was actually sending his children to the 
Sunday-school, and encouraging them to become 
members of the Band of Hope, while at the same time 
he was scoffing at the very principles which were 
being instilled into their minds. He determined to 
put this matter to the test. So one day, taking a 
pocket Bible with him, he retired to his private office. 
He reasoned in this way, that if God were really what 


230 


REAL LI PE SKETCHES, 


he was represented to be (and Mr. Priest was not 
an atheist by any means) then he would hear a 
prayer for guidance if offered to him in sincerity. 
And he searched the inspired Word, and prayed. 
Again and again this was repeated. He sought no 
human aid ; but at odd moments of respite from his 
duties he sought the privacy of his office, and there 
the battle between right and wrong, truth and error, 
light and the darkness of unbelief was fought and 
won. The struggle lasted some weeks, but Richard 
Priest emerged from it a new man. It was not by an 
elaborately prepared and eloquently delivered ser- 
mon ; it was not by a learned disputation on the ev- 
idences, internal, external, and collateral, of Chris- 
tianity, nor the excitement of a revival ; but by the 
irresistible logic of a truly Christian life daily ex- 
hibited before his eyes; the inconsistency of his 
own life and the guidance of the Holy Spirit vouch- 
safed in answer to the prayer of an earnest soul 
struggling against doubt and unbelief that he was led 
into the light. Truly the inspired apostle declares 
that '‘there are diversities of workings, but the 
same God, who worketh all things in all.'’ (i Cor. 
xii, 6, Rev. Ver.) Mr. Priest’s experience corre- 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


231 


sponded very nearly with that of Arthur Henry 
Hallam, as related by his friend Tennyson in “In 
Memoriam 

“ He fought his doubts and gathered strength ; 

He would not make his judgment blind; 

He faced the specters of his mind 
And laid them ; thus he came at length 

To find a stronger faith his own ; 

And power was with him in the night 
Which makes the darkness and the light, 

And dwells not in the light alone, 

But in the darkness and the cloud 
As over Sinai’s peaks of old, 

While Israel made their gods of gold. 

Although the trumpet blew so loud.” 

It considerably enhanced the pleasure of preach- 
ing at St. Germans to see Mr. Priest sitting with his 
family in the chapel and joining so heartily in the 
service. That the change which took place in his na- 
ture was real, and not a mere impulse, has been 
shown by his steady, consistent life ever since. As 
I have already stated, he is as cheerful and lively 
as he ever was ; but his cheerfulness now is the out- 
come of the deep-seated conviction that by the grace 
of God he has now “ a conscience void of offense 
toward God and man.” 


SKETCH XXIV. 

Some; Notabi^e Obd Warships. 


“The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 

And monarchs tremble in their capitals ; 

The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war, — 

These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake. 

They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada’s pride or spoils of Trafalgar.” 

— Byron. 

In the winter of 1861-62 there steamed into Ply- 
mouth Sound a war vessel which attracted univer- 
sal attention, as she very well might. She was the 
Warrior, the iirst ironclad built by the British Gov- 
ernment. She was a wooden frigate, plated with 
four-inch armorplates. I remember her well as she 
lay between Cremyll and the Royal William Victual- 
ing Yard, and as we rowed past her on our way 
down and up the harbor I was more than ever im- 

232 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


233 


pressed with what I considered the invincibility of 
the British power. Her low black hull stood in 
strong contrast with the huge towering forms of 
the Royal William , guardship, and the Royal Ade- 
laide, flagship, lying near her, and also to her im- 
mediate predecessor, the Howe, which was moored 
farther up the harbor and which had been towed 
around from Pembroke the previous summer. Those 
two ships marked the period of transition from “the 
oak leviathan'' of the past age to the steel-built bat- 
tleship and cruiser of the present. The Howe in her- 
self combined certain elements of the old and new 
of naval warfare. She was an immense wooden 
line-of-battle ship, with the old-time name and num- 
ber of decks — “upper," “main," “lower," “orlop," 
and hold, quarterdeck, and poop. She was full- 
rigged, at least she was intended to be. Combined 
with this were the arrangements for steam propul- 
sion. She was a screw-steamer and sailing-ship. 
She was never commissioned, however. She was 
never rigged, and her engines and boilers were in 
Keyham factory the last time I visited that place, 
some twenty years ago. At the time I left England 
there was a rumor of her name being changed to 


234 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


Bulwarkj and of her taking the place of the Royal 
William, as guardship. I am not aware that during 
the thirty years of her stay in Devonport Harbor she 
ever shifted her position off the mouth of the 
Lyncher but once, and then, taking advantage of a 
heavy gale from the northwest, she varied the mo- 
notony of her existence by slipping her moorings 
and drifting down the harbor, seriously endangering 
any smaller craft that might have been in her way. 
Fortunately the tugs Carron and Scotia were lying 
off the dockyard, with steam up, and by their mild 
persuasion she was induced to return to her old 
moorings and stay there. 

The Warrior was soon followed by the Prince 
Consort and the Black Prince. Then came, for- 
midable with their long, black, sweeping hulls and 
huge funnels, the Aginconrt and Northumberland, 
the Caledonia and Ocean, the Penelope and Lord 
Warden, with the turret-ships Cyclops and Gorgon, 
followed by the whole crowd which make up the 
present British Navy, ''efficient’' and "obsolete.” 
But it was in the old "wooden walls” of old Eng- 
land that my youthful attention was chiefly centered 
and which must and will be fraught with interest to 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


235 

every Briton and descendant of Briton, whether in 
the Old World or the New, as long as 

“ Stately purposes, valor in battle, 

Glorious annals of army and fleet,” 

shall possess any attraction for old and young. 
That the complete history of this world, humanly 
speaking, will never be written we may regard as 
a truism. That the graphic pen-pictures of individ- 
ual prowess and endurance, of cheerful fortitude and 
self-denial, of suffering and humiliation, of tyranny 
and vile, rascally oppression, as given us by Smollet, 
Marryatt, and other writers, give us but a faint idea 
of what has been witnessed inside those old hulks; 
but I will endeavor, in the following page or two, to 
give some account of men with whom I have been 
in personal contact, who in their turn were identified 
with some of those old ships. It was some time in 
the early seventies that I dropped into a “cook shop’^ 
in Catharine Street, Devonport, and took my place 
at one of the tables. Facing me were two old men, 
evidently naval pensioners, who at once caught my 
attention. They were engaged in conversation, and 
I caught the words : “Yes, I served on her in 182 — J* 


236 rbal life sketches, 

''Arethusa.” "‘Bacchus now/' My curiosity was 
aroused, and I addressed them : 

‘‘Excuse me, gentlemen ; but is the ship you spoke 
of the same old Bacchus, now moored off Torpoint 
and used as a coal hulk?” 

“The same, sir,” was the reply, and then followed 
the story of how, during the great French War, 
she was commanded by Captain Pellew, afterward 
Lord Exmouth; how that on one occasion, when 
cruising in the channel, she encountered three 
French frigates; an engagement ensued, which re- 
sulted in one being captured, one sunk, and the other 
sailing home with the news. I took a most lively 
interest in that old coal hulk after that, and regarded 
it then, as I do now, as a great mistake that a ship 
with such a record had not been taken greater 
care of. 

On February 4, 1797, a Spanish fleet commanded 
by Admiral Don Juan de Cordova was defeated by 
the British under Admiral Jervis off Cape St. Vin- 
cent. Lord Nelson was then acting as rear admiral, 
and captured two of the largest Spanish vessels, the 
San Nicolas and the San Josef. He had previously 
so terribly mauled and battered the Santissima Trin- 
idada as to compel her to haul out of action. Cap- 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


237 


tain Marryatt represents Quartermaster Swinburne 
as giving Peter Simple a vivid and somewhat hu- 
morous account of his personal experiences of this 
action, particularly of the capture of the two ships 
mentioned above. An immense oil-painting of this 
scene was exhibited at the naval exhibition held in 
London in 1891. 

The San Nicolas and San Josef were moved off 
the dockyard until some time in the early fifties, 
when the San Josef was accidentally burnt, and I 
think the San Nicolas was sold and broken up. At 
that time, and for nearly a quarter of a century after, 
there resided on the Cornish side of the harbor an 
old sailor named Couch, who had assisted in their 
capture. When Mr. Couch was well on to eighty 
years of age he sold his pension, and afterward be- 
ing reduced to great poverty, became an inmate of 
Torpoint Workhouse, where he remained many 
years. 

One day, when he was nearing the century mark, 
some gentlemen visiting the house became interested 
in him and made application to the admiralty for 
the restoration of his pension, which was granted, 
and the old man lived many years after this in com- 
parative comfort. He had been in more than fifty 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


238 

naval engagements, and had been wounded in nearly 
every part of his body. His memory continued clear 
almost to the last, and he used to entertain the pas- 
sengers on the excursion steamers with his personal 
reminiscenses, interrupting himself now and then 
with a ‘‘Thank you, sir,” as a shilling or half a crown 
was thrust into his hand. 

On the first of August, 1798, was fought the 
terrible battle in Aboukir Bay, known as the “Battle 
of the Nile,” when the French fleet, commanded by 
Admiral Brucyes, was annihilated by the British fleet 
under Nelson. Among the prizes taken on that oc- 
casion was the eighty-gun line-of-battle ship Frank- 
lin, so named by the French out of compliment to 
the great American statesman. I believe it was at 
Nelson’s suggestion that she was renamed the Can- 
opus. She was added to the British Navy, and when 
I first made her acquaintance, in the later fifties, 
was doing duty as a “receiving ship,” being an- 
chored off the gunwharf at Devonport. The last 
time I saw her was on the 29th of October, 1892. 
Among the few French ships escaping from Cape 
Trafalgar on the memorable 21st of October, 1805, 
was the Dugay Trouin, line-of-battle ship. A few 
days later she was captured by a British squadron 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


239 


commanded by Sir Richard Strachan. Her name 
was also changed, and, at the present time, is the 
well-known training-ship Impregnable, lying in 
Devonport Harbor and familiar to thousands of sea- 
men in the British Navy. 

I happened one day in the later seventies to step 
into a fruiterer^s shop in Albert Road, Moricetown, 
when my attention was drawn to a picture hanging on 
the wall, representing His Majesty’s frigate Pique, 
as she appeared entering Portsmouth Harbor, in 
1828, in a condition little other than a mastless, rud- 
derless hulk. Another picture represented her in the 
dry dock, with a detached fragment of rock sticking 
in her bottom. The proprietor of the shop, an old 
naval pensioner, soon gave me the story. 

*Ts this the same Pique now lying off Keyham ?” 
I asked. 

'Tt is, sir,” he replied. “And I served on her in 
1828 on the North American station. We were 
caught in a terrible gale off the coast of Newfound- 
land. We struck on a sunken rock; we were dis- 
masted and lost our rudder. We drifted about in 
the Atlantic for three months. Not so much traffic 
in the Atlantic then, no steamers ; so we drifted. At 
last however, by the help of jury masts and a tern- 


240 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


porary steering gear, we got away near the English 
Coast; we were picked up and towed into Ports- 
mouth. When we were dry-docked the rock fell out. 
Had that happened at sea we should have sunk to a 
dead certainty.’' 

The Pique was at that time commanded by the 
late Admiral Rous, and for many years past has been 
moored in Jennycliif Bay, under Mt. Batten, and 
used as a hospital ship. At the time of my conversa- 
tion with the old sailor she was riding at anchor just 
within sight of his home, and must have been a con- 
stant reminder of early days’ adventures. 

Among other of my old acquaintances were the 
paddle frigates Terrible and ValourouSy ships that 
did good service in the Black Sea in 1854-55. 
They were engaged in the bombardment of Odessa, 
when the ill-fated l^iger got aground in a fog just 
under the Russian batteries, and, not being able to 
elevate her guns sufficiently to do any execution to 
the forts and being exposed to a plunging fire from 
the Russian guns, she was almost knocked to pieces, 
and her crew made prisoners. 

Those two frigates were engaged in the opera- 
tions before Sebastopol, the capture of Kertch, and 
the bombardment of Kimburn. 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


241 


One other story, which contains an element of 
grim humor, is worth repeating. I quote it from 
memory from “Smith’s Plymouth Almanack.” It 
is to this effect : 

During the French War the dockyard authorities 
had orders to prepare a dock for a large liner (I 
think the Queen Charlotte), then being built at 
one of the eastern dockyards, either Chatham or 
Sheerness. The dock was to be of such and such 
dimensions, duly specified. When, after a reason- 
able time had elapsed, the lords of the admiralty 
came around to inspect the new dock they found 
that their orders had been exceeded, the dock being 
several feet longer and wider than the order speci- 
fied. An explanation was demanded, which was 
promptly forthcoming. Soon after receiving the or- 
der, word had reached Plymouth that the French 
were building a ship at Toulon whose dimensions 
exceeded those of the Queen Charlotte by exactly so 
many feet, and it was decided to prepare the dock 
for her, as she was much nearer completion than 
the Queen Charlotte, and she was expected in be- 
fore the latter was ready. The French man-of-war 
was launched, captured, and brought into Plymouth, 
and docked accordingly. I can not quit this sub- 

16 


42 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


ject without a word of tribute to the magnificent 
work done on behalf of our seamen by that noble- 
hearted lady Miss Agnes Weston. Once, and once 
only, I have had the pleasure of listening to her 
when she addressed a meeting (which was presided 
over by my esteemed friend, the late Canon Buck) 
in the interests of her work among the royal naval 
seamen. Previous to 1870 the entrance to the dock- 
yard in Fore Street, Devonport, was flanked by a 
double row of public-houses. The triangle formed 
by Dockwall Street, Fore Street, and Catharine 
Street inclosed the vilest district in the town, a laby- 
rynth of alleys and “drangs,’" known as the ‘"Cribs.” 
Many a sailor paid off after a three or five years’ 
commission has been enticed into one or another 
of those vile dens, stupefied with liquor, and then 
finishing up with an orgie in the “cribs,” found him- 
self penniless and in disgrace within a week of his 
coming on shore. Many and many a noble char- 
acter had been wrecked and driven to irretrievable 
ruin in the “cribs,” North Corner and Pembroke 
Streets. 

The story of Miss Weston’s work among those 
men has been written by abler pens than mine; but 
it was due to her exertions that the “Sailors’ Rest” 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


243 

was established on the site of two of the above men- 
tioned public-houses. The institution comprises a 
lunch-counter where refreshments of a nonintoxi- 
cating character are supplied; a dining-room, read- 
ing-room, lecture hall, and private sitting-room for 
sailors ; large, airy, well-appointed dormitories, 
where a comfortable bed can be hired at one pence 
per night, and cabins rented by the week or month. 
Gradually the work has extended, necessitating an 
extension of premises. Nearly the whole block has 
now been absorbed. The ^'cribs’’ have disappeared. 
Two or three well-laid-out streets occupy their place, 
and Devonport is an infinitely cleaner place in every 
sense of the word than it was a half century ago. 
Although the present generation of our naval sea- 
men have no great sea fights to commemorate, yet 
the way in which they worked in Natal in the recent 
war shows that they have lost none of their physical 
or moral courage and powers of endurance. But 
victories of no mean importance in their bearing on 
the present and future of our army and navy have 
been won over intemperance and its attendant evils, 
and in these grand achievements the names of Miss 
Agnes Weston and her fellow- workers will hold a 
prominent place. 


SKETCH XXV. 

A Quaint Oud Spot, with Romantic Asso- 
ciations. 

In the diary of her late Majesty Queen Vic- 
toria there appears the following passage under the 
date ‘‘September, 1846:’^ 

“We steamed up the Tamar, going first a little 
way up the St. Germans River, which has very 
pretty wooded banks. Trematon Castle to the 
right, which belongs to Bertie (the Prince of 
Wales), as Duke of Cornwall, and Jats on the 
left are extremely pretty. We stopped here, and 
afterward turned back and went up the Tamar, 
which at first seemed flat; but as we proceeded the 
scenery became quite beautiful — richly-wooded hills, 
the trees growing down into the water, and the 
river winding so much as to have the effect of a 
lake. . . . The first parts begin about Saltash, 
which is a small but prettily built town. . . . 

244 


RBAL LIFB SKBTCHBS, 


24S 

(At Tavy) . . . the river becomes very beau- 

tiful. We passed numbers of mines at work. (At 
Cothele) we landed and drove up a steep hill, under 
fine trees, to the very curious old house at Cothele, 
where we got out of the carriage. ... It stands 
in the same state as it was in the time of Henry VII, 
and is in great preservation — the old rooms being 
hung with arras, etc.” 

The minutes of the Duchy Council of the time 
of the Black Prince, son of Edward III, contain 
references to another important event connected with 
this quaint old spot. This is the marriage, in 1353, 
of William of Edgcumbe, second son of Richard of 
Edgcumbe, near Endsleigh, in the parish ©f Milton 
Abbot, and Hilaria de Cothele, daughter of William, 
and sister and heiress of Ralph de Cothele. It is 
a curious fact that both the house at Milton Abbot 
and the Cothele property have remained in the fam- 
ily ever since, the former descending to the elder 
branch, and the latter to the younger branch of the 
Edgcumbe family. 

I must now make an attempt at a description of 
this lovely old spot, every foot of which is familiar to 
me, and which is crowded with memories, personal, 
legendary, and historical. Landing at the same place 


246 RBAL life sketches, 

where the royal party landed in 1846, and crossing 
the quays and docks rented by Messrs. Vivian and 
Sons, of Swansea, we pass into the grounds and as- 
cend the hill mentioned in Her Majesty’s diary, 
through woods of gigantic trees, in which oak and 
chestnut predominate. Terrible havoc, however, 
was wrought here by a storm which swept over the 
south of England on the 9th of March, 1891, and 
which will be remembered for all time as “the bliz- 
zard,” when for about six hours the air was filled 
with the sound of falling timber, and acres of the 
finest woodland in the district were leveled, and im- 
mense damage was done to orchards and fruit-gar- 
dens. In this connection I may mention that I re- 
member seeing one orchard of about four acres with 
scarcely a tree left standing. At the top of the car- 
riage drive we enter the lawn, also shaded with trees, 
and crossing it we find ourselves confronted by an 
embattled gateway consisting of three stories of 
apartments. It is apparent to the most casual ob- 
server that this gateway has been built at at least 
two different periods. For about ten feet from the 
foundation the wall is of rough blocks of stone, the 
gray el van of the district; above that are regular 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


247 


courses of dressed granite, the nearest quarries of 
which are at Kingston Downs, some miles to the 
north. The former was evidently built before the 
time of the fair Hilaria de Cothele, the latter by Sir 
Richard Edgcumbe, who will be mentioned later on. 
Here is a massive, iron-studded, oaken door, opened 
to admit carriages, with a small wicket in the center 
for foot passengers. Inside this wicket on the right- 
hand side are the cells for prisoners, and a winding 
stone staircase leads to the apartments over the gate. 
The pebbles with which the passage is paved are 
stained with blood. Yes, human blood! Blood on 
and between the stones ; a big splash of blood on the 
wall, on the pathway leading to what used to be the 
servant’s hall ; blood on the cement floor of the hall. 
Well! this is a blood-stained world, anyhow; but it 
is a good thing for us that all the blood that is shed 
does not show itself as this does. We cross the quad- 
rangle, or “green court,” as it is called. On our right 
as we pass are the drawing-rooms, etc., and in front 
of us is another iron-studded door, leading into the 
hall, a lofty and spacious apartment, measuring 
forty-two feet in length by twenty-two feet in 
breadth. At the western end stands a figure clad in 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


248 

mediaeval armor, locally known as ‘'Billy Donkin,’^ 
alias “Jimmy Treais.” The latter name was given 
him in honor of the following circumstance: 

A pair of boots had been ordered by one of the 
Cothele household from a local disciple of St. Cris- 
pin. The boots were completed and brought to the 
house by the bootbuilder himself. Walking up to 
the hall door, which was standing ajar, Jimmy 
reached to the massive iton knocker and timidly 
knocked. There was no response, and after waiting 
some minutes Jimmy stepped inside, when a terrible 
sight met his gaze — a dark-complexioned individual, 

“Clad in armor of steel 
A somber and sorrowful figure,” 

holding in his right hand a lance, and a dagger in 
his belt. 

“Plaise, here ’s yer butes,’^ exclaimed Jimmy, 
throwing them on the floor, and, turning, he fled in 
headlong haste across the quadrangle and dashed 
through the wicket, never pausing in his flight until 
he had completely assured himself that the terrible 
apparition was not chasing him and that the lance 
it carried was not within the eighth of an inch of 
his ribs. 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


249 

There was no necessity for Mr. Treais’s extreme 
haste. For many generations ‘‘Billy Donkin” has 
looked down on scenes festive and otherwise enacted 
in the hall. 

In 1645, Charles Stuart, afterward Charles II, 
staid for a few nights at Cothele, and slept in what 
is known as '‘King Charles’s room.” In August, 
1789, King George III and Queen Caroline, ac- 
companied by two of their daughters, passed 
through this hall and breakfasted with the Earl and 
Countess of Mount Edgcumbe. Early in the month 
of June every year the tenants of the Manors of 
Landrake and Bereferris meet here to pay the rent 
due at Eady-day, and in December they are there 
again to pay the rent due at Michaelmas, this time 
their numbers being augmented by those of the 
Manors of Calstock, Halton, and Baber, who settle 
up once a year according to ancient usage. On each 
occasion tables plentifully spread with roast and 
boiled beef, pies, plum-pudding, etc., are laid out 
in the hall. The farmers regale themselves, and 
then follow toasts and speeches. For sixty-four 
years the present earl and his father, or in his un- 
avoidable absence the steward, arose from his chair 
and proposed the health of Her Most Gracious 


250 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


Majesty Queen Victoria, and the hall rung with 
the strains of “God save the Queen.” Then 
came the Prince and Princess of Wales and the 
royal family, responded to by three cheers from one 
hundred and fifty lusty voices. Then his lordship’s 
health was drunk, and, whether appropriate or not, 
his lordship heard himself compared to— 

“A fine old English gentleman, 

One of the olden time.” 

I remember on one of those occasions the earl, 
in rising to propose the health of the queen, in- 
formed us that his earliest recollection of Her 
Majesty was being lifted in somebody’s arms in 
Westminster Abbey to see the crown placed on her 
head on June 28, 1838. 

“Billy Donkin” is surrounded by implements of 
ancient warfare. On either side are suits of armor 
of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and at the 
opposite end of the hall are cuirasses and helmets 
of the Stuart period. All around the hall are swords 
of ancient and peculiar make, conspicuous among 
them being an immense Norman two-handed sword. 
The blade measures six feet in length, and the hilt 
is of solid brass. Verily it must have required a 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


251 


giant’s strength to wield it. There are cross bows, 
ancient flintlock pistols, guns of various make. One 
Arab gun is richly inlaid with ivory and pearl. 
There are pikes and halberds fitted with a hook to 
be used in scaling walls; two ancient Irish trump- 
ets, and a circular shield with a small hook on the 
boss to catch the blade of the assailant’s sword and 
by a turn of the arm either disarm him or hold him 
while a counter stroke is delivered. If in this prac- 
tical utilitarian age the question is asked. What is 
the use of preserving those old relics? Why not 
consign them to the rubbish pile? I reply that if, 
as one writer has observed, ‘‘To study history is to 
study literature,” then whatever helps us to study 
history is a material assistance in that direction; 
and it may be that the dents on those old pieces of 
armor and the notches on those old weapons are so 
many way-marks in the road to civil and religious 
liberty. We know this has not been secured without 
some hard knocks, and dull indeed must be the in- 
tellect that does not take a keen and lively interest 
in the struggle. 

One eminent antiquary has described Cothele 
House as “A. museum of surpassing interest.” I 
shall not attempt to describe the old mansion, room 


252 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


by room, guide-book fashion; but note that the 
rooms are adorned with tapestry hangings, richly 
wrought pictures of classic scenes done in needle- 
work by the ladies of olden time, conspicuous among 
them being : “The Finding of Romulus and Remus,’^ 
“The Building of Rome,’' “The Procession of the 
Bacchidae,” “Bacchus Pursued by the Satyr,” etc. 
There are ancient bedsteads, chairs, and cabinets. 
There are books showing some early specimens of 
printing. There is a splendid steel mirror, a Saxon 
stirrup cup, and an immense leather ale pitcher. I 
must, however, attempt to describe the old chapel. 
I have been in it many times, and once I attended a 
service there which was conducted by the Rev. 
Canon Hullah, rector of Calstock. Like all Angli- 
can places of worship, it has a chancel and com- 
munion-table. There is a stained-glass window with 
a picture representing the crucifixion. There is a 
granite baptismal font of Saxon times, and a clock 
said to be the oldest in Cornwall. Near the pulpit 
is a small apartment known as the lepers’ room, so 
constructed that those afflicted with that terrible 
disease could sit and hear the sermon and join in 
the prayers without coming into contact with the 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


253 

congregation. On the wall of the chapel is a tablet 
with the following inscription: 

^‘To the memory of Caroline Augusta, Countess 
of Mount Edgcumbe, who lived here during the 
twenty years of her widowhood beloved by all, and 
died November 2nd, 1881/' 

This excellent lady will long be held in remem- 
brance by all classes in that neighborhood on ac- 
count of her gentle sympathetic nature, so free as 
it was from all affectation of superiority, traits 
which have been inherited by all the members of 
her family with whom I have been brought into 
contact. The Royal Archaeological Society visited 
Cothele on August 14, 1876, and were entertained 
by Lord Mount Edgcumbe, who read a paper, from 
which I shall now give some facts. 

From this paper we learn that “Cothele’’ is de- 
rived from two British words — “Coet hayle,” which 
mean “the wood on the river,” and also some par- 
ticulars relating to Sir Richard Edgcumbe, who 
appears to have been “born to trouble as the sparks 
fly upward.” No novelist or romancer ever in- 
vented a story more full of romantic and dramatic 
interest than this sketch of his history taken from 


254 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


documents now in the possession of his noble de- 
scendant. In 1468, Sir Richard was member of 
Parliament for Tavistock, and we may assume that 
he had taken the oath of allegiance to King Ed- 
ward IV ; but from the fact that we find him seven- 
teen years later on the side of the Earl of Richmond 
we may infer that he had become disgusted with 
the cruelties and tyranny of Edward and Richard 
of Gloucester, and had joined in the movements set 
on foot to dethrone the latter monarch, which move- 
ment was ultimately successful. 

In 1470 England owned two kings — one, Henry 
VI, in the Tower of London a prisoner; the other, 
Edward IV, a fugitive on the continent of Europe, 
with the Earl of Warwick holding the reins of 
power in England. The state of confusion into 
which the kingdom must have been plunged for 
years will account for what his lordship informs us 
was occurring at this time. He says : 

‘T have a rather amusing document, dated 1470, 
apparently the rough copy of a complaint or infor- 
mation by this Richard against Robert Willoughby, 
who lived across the water at Bereferris, of in- 
juries done to him at sundry times. This paper, 
which is remarkable for its wonderful spelling and 


RBAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


255 


for the careful way in which every hostile act is 
estimated at its money value, contains no less than 
thirteen items or charges, each specifying some dis- 
tinct outrage on the part of the said Willoughby and 
his followers, numbering on one occasion 'three- 
score persons, in form of war arraied with Jackes, 
salettes, bowys, arws, and Byelys, who at various 
times and places contrewaited the said Richard to 
have mordered him and with force of armes made 
a great affray and assawte upon him and his serv- 
ants, sometimes to the great jeperdy and despayre 
of his liff,' always to his hurt and damage of so 
many pounds. And on another occasion they at- 
tacked Cothele House itself, and carried off a very 
miscellaneous collection of articles to the hurt and 
damage of the said Richard of a great many 
pounds ; and at other times took divers of his serv- 
ants and kept them for a week at a time in prison 
at Bereferris and ‘bete’ and grievously wounded 
others, especially one William Frost, to the hurt 
and damage to the said Richard of £20 and more. 
It is a curious fact that fifteen years later this Wil- 
loughby, as Lord de Brokie, and Richard Edgcumbe 
held high places together in the court of Henry 
VH, and three hundred years later, the estates of 


256 rbal life sketches . 

Willoughby having passed into the possession of 
Lord Buckinghamshire, came to my grandfather 
on his marriage with Lady Sophia Hobart.’’ 

It was probably about the time referred to in 
the above document that the tragedy occurred at 
the wicket gate, which has left its traces for all 
time. 

Sir Richard was in anticipation of being ‘‘con- 
trewaited” by some one, most likely by his amiable 
neighbor Willoughby of Bereferris, ‘‘to the jep- 
erdy and dispayre of his liff,” so he proceeded to 
put his house in a state of defense. He put trusty 
men to guard the approaches to the house, and then 
went around himself to see that each was at his 
post and on the alert. There was one man, how- 
ever, toward whom he entertained a feeling of sus- 
picion. The exact reason for this has not trans- 
pired, but at any rate Sir Richard had such cause 
to suspect his loyalty that he determined to put it 
to the test, and to make a terrible example of him 
if the test failed. He put him to guard the wicket, 
with strict orders not to let any one pass under any 
pretext whatever. He then went out at the back 
entrance, and passing around the house in the dark- 
ness he approached the wicket. Disguising his 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


257 

voice, he asked the porter to admit him. The door 
was opened, and the suspected traitor was con- 
fronted by his indignant master. There were a few 
words of angry remonstrance, there was a flash of 
steel, a thrust, a shriek of pain as the wounded man 
fell against the wall; then with his hand pressed 
to his side in the vain endeavor to stop the rush of 
his life-blood he staggered up the walk to the serv- 
ants' hall, and fell exhausted on the cement floor 
in the midst of his terrified fellow-servants. We 
can picture the grim knight walking across tihe 
quadrangle carrying his dripping sword, probably 
one of those now hanging in the hall, and summon- 
ing such of his retainers as were off duty and warn- 
ing them of the danger of holding any communi- 
cation whatever with people from across the river. 
We can understand how that on wintry nights when 
the northeast or southwest wind has been howling 
and shrieking through the loopholes of the old 
towers that Cothele servants have awakened in 
terror and heard in those sounds the despairing cry 
of the spirit of the man whose life-blood dyes the 
floor of the room beneath them. 

But the centuries have rolled on, and the blood- 
stains have been trodden on by royal visitors going 


17 


258 REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 

to be entertained sumptuously by Sir Richard’s 
descendants, by distressed tenants on their way to 
ask favors of their landlords; by antiquaries and 
achaeologists in search of material with which to 
make history ; of jolly farmers on their way to pay 
their Michaelmas rent and drink their landlord’s 
health and discuss the prospects of farming, and 
terrified shoemakers fleeing for their lives from 
^‘Billy Donkin.” 

A. D. 1483 was a stirring and eventful year in 
English history. In the early spring Edward IV 
closed his dissolute and blood-stained career, at the 
early age of forty-one. Rivers of blood had flowed 
at Hedgley Moor and Hexham, at Towton and 
Shrewsbury, at St. Albans and a score of other 
places, to place him and keep him on the throne. 
Innumerable crimes had been committed, crimes 
most detestable and unnatural, crimes against every 
law and instinct of human nature. Well might 
George, Duke of Clarence, when imprisoned in the 
Tower by the orders of his unnatural brother ex- 
claim to his custodian, Sir Richard Brackenbury: 

“O Brackenbury! I have done 
Those things that now lie heavy on my soul 
For Edw'ard’s sake, and see how he requites me.” 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


259 


In the early summer the Duke of Gloucester had 
usurped the crown, under the title of Richard III. 
Then came the news that the poor boy of thirteen, 
who had been the sovereign in name only of the 
realm under the name of Edward V, had, with his 
younger brother, been murdered in the Tower, 
whose walls had already witnessed so many of those 
crimes. The early fall witnessed an insurrection 
against the usurper. The Duke of Buckingham 
had been one of his most energetic and unscrupu- 
lous supporters, and now he began to be alarmed 
for his own safety. Buckingham knew too many 
State secrets, had participated in too many State 
crimes to be regarded with complacency by such a 
man as Richard. In addition to this, he was him- 
self distantly related to the royal family, and even 
distant relatives were in those times suspicious char- 
acters. Having no further use for his services, 
what was to hinder Richard from sending him the 
way of Clarence, of Hastings, of his nephews, and 
a score of others who had stood or had appeared to 
stand in the way of his projects? The duke deter- 
mined to anticipate the king by a bold stroke. 
Henry, Earl of Richmond, a scion of the House 
of Lancaster, was on just the same footing as re- 


26 o 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


garded title to the crown as Richard, and consider- 
ably nearer than Buckingham himself. Henry was 
now watching the course of events from Brittany. 
Buckingham and several others of the English no- 
bility decided on bringing him over and making him 
king. How the scheme failed is a matter of well- 
known history. Richmond’s fleet, carrying an army 
of five thousand men, when nearing the coast of 
Devon was driven back by stormy weather. Buck- 
ingham advancing through Wales, was stopped by 
the same storms, which flooded the Severn Valley 
and prevented his crossing. This gave Richard and 
his generals time to collect their forces, and march- 
ing simultaneously against Buckingham in the mid- 
lands and the disaffected nobles and gentry in the 
south and west of England, who had armed their 
tenantry to support the Earl of Richmond as soon 
as he should land, they inflicted a crushing defeat 
on them at all points. The duke was captured and 
promptly beheaded. Others shared the same fate, 
and their lands being confiscated and forfeited to 
the crown were apportioned to the adherents of the 
king. 

Among those gentlemen in the south of England 
who sided with Buckingham was Sir Richard Edg- 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


261 


cumbe. And among those Cornishmen who sided 
with Richard was one Henry Trenoweth of Bod- 
ruggan, or Bodrigan. About midway between the 
Lizard Point and the Rame Head, and forming the 
boundary between St. Austell Bay and Whitsand 
Bay stands the promontory known as the Dodman’s 
Head. The Manor of Bodruggan extends from 
here northward as far as Roche and westward as 
far as Probus, taking in nearly all the intervening 
country. Trenoweth directed his attention to Sir 
Richard Edgcumbe, and after the dispersal of Rich- 
mond’s supporters chased him into Cothele Woods. 
Sir Richard was closely pursued and ran down to 
the edge of a cliff overhanging the river. There 
was a great stone lying conveniently in his path. 
To throw his broad-brimmed hat into the river and 
hurl the stone after it was the work of a moment. 
To hide himself behind the luxuriant growth of ivy 
and mountain ash, which then as now overhung the 
cliff, was an equally rapid proceeding. When Tre- 
noweth’s men arrived on the spot a few minutes later 
Sir Richard’s hat was floating slowly down the 
river, or sailing gracefully around in the eddies 
formed by the projecting cliff, while the wavelets 
caused by the stone were gradually widening in 


262 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


circles toward the Devonshire side. This was easily 
interpreted. Sir Richard was drowned, and the 
delighted Trenoweth hastened off to London to re- 
port the circumstance to the king, and obtain the 
reversion of the Edgcumbe estates to himself. That 
night a boat glided silently under the cliff, and ship- 
ping a passenger wrapped in a cloak moved swiftly 
and silently down the river; past Saltash, then a 
lively little shipping port ; past the mud flats, where 
Keyham factory now stands; past Mutton Cove 
with its clump of fishermen's cottages, with the 
rising ground behind surmounted by the windmill 
which occupied the site of the Devonport column at 
the head of what is now Ker Street, with the lights 
twinking in the windows of Mr. Wise’s residence 
on Mount Wise, where the Government House 
and the Admiralty Office now stands; past Devil’s 
Point it emerged into Plymouth Sound. Here 
was found a vessel bound for the coast of Brittany, 
and a few days later Sir Richard had joined the 
Earl of Richmond, and the two, with such other of 
their friends who had escaped the fury of the king, 
were arranging their plans for another attempt to 
dethrone him. Meanwhile Trenoweth of Bodruggan 
had obtained t!ie gift of the Manor of Calstock and 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 263 

what other of the Edgcumbe property he could lay 
his hands on, and was in a state of jubilation over 
his good fortune, unconscious of the storm which 
was brewing in Brittany, and which was destined 
later on to disturb the “even tenor of his way/' 
On the 1st of August, 1485, Richmond and his ad- 
herents landed at Midford Haven, and three weeks 
later was fought the decisive battle of Bosworth 
field, where Richard lost his crown and his life. 
Sir Richard Edgcumbe, in return for his services 
on this occasion, was rewarded by the new king 
with the restoration of the estates which had been 
seized by Trenoweth of Bodruggan, and also with the 
Manor of Bodruggan itself, and proceeded at once 
to take possession of his new acquisition. The po- 
sition of affairs which existed in 1483 was reversed 
in 1485. There was a hot chase through Bodrug- 
gan, as there had been through Calstock; but this 
time Trenoweth was in front and Edgcumbe was 
behind. Trenoweth made for the sea, and on reach- 
ing the Dodman's Head he dodged over the cliff in 
a very clever imitation of Sir Richard's maneuver, 
and got away somewhere. History is silent as to 
his after movements ; but the place where he eluded 
his pursuers is still known as “Bodruggan's Eeap." 


264 RE;AL lifb skbtchbs. 

The Earl of Richmond on his accession to the 
throne of England as Henry VII appointed Sir 
Richard to the position of comptroller of the 
household. He did not enjoy his honors long, 
however. Being sent on an embassy to France in 
1489, he died on his way back to England, and was 
buried at Morlaix. In those four years, however, 
he did sufficient work to keep his memory alive for 
all time. He completely renovated the old man- 
sion at Cothele, and left it in practically the same 
form in which it stands to-day. To commemorate 
his escape from Bodruggan’s men in 1483 he built 
a small, plain chapel on the spot where he had hid- 
den himself. It still stands there, having under- 
gone no change except the necessary repairs re- 
quired by the stress of wind and weather, and on 
the inside is painted the account of its founding, 
taken from Carew’s “Survey of Cornwall,’’ and 
which is substantially as I have given it. 

The river, which here winds close around the 
foot of the cliff, so close indeed that a stone could 
be easily dropped on the deck of a steamer or coal- 
ing schooner passing under it, is in the summer 
months especially the scene of busy traffic. In ad- 
dition to the trading ships, both steam and sail. 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 265 

which when the tide suits are almost continually 
passing and repassing, there are scores of steamers 
carrying in the aggregate thousands of excursion- 
ists to the Morwell Rocks and the Weir Head, and 
the music of the bands is echoed and re-echoed 
among the richly-wooded cliffs and from the walls 
of the old chapel, which for more than four cen- 
turies has looked down on that calm, peaceful flow- 
ing river, whose placid flow suggested to our fore- 
fathers, either British or Saxon, the name from 
which “Tamar'^ has sprung, which name “Tamh’' 
is probably the root of “tame,” with a broader and 
richer significance. 

I must now put in a few words about our old 
friend Willoughby of Bereferris. He seems to 
have become quite a reformed character, and to have 
taken an active part in aiding the Earl of Rich- 
mond in his struggle for the throne. He was re- 
warded for his services by being made steward of 
the Duchy of Cornwall. He also held the Manor 
of Killyland, and was patron of the living of South 
Hill and Callington. King Henry also made him 
a peer, with the title of Lord Willoughby de Broke, 
and also invested him with the Order of the Garter. 
He died in 1502, and was buried in Callington 


266 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


Church, where an alabaster tomb marks his resting- 
place. “The effigy is represented in complete armor 
except the head, which is uncovered, displaying long 
flowing hair. Over the armor, fastened across the 
breast by a tasseled cord, is the mantle of the Order 
of the Garter. The feet rest on a lion, whilst at 
their soles are carved the figures of two monks 
seated, the head of each monk resting on one of his 
hands, whilst with the other he is counting his 
beads.” * 

It might have contributed somewhat to the com- 
fort of his neighbors if the good monks had under- 
taken to look after him a few years sooner. A short 
distance from Cothele House is a deep, narrow 
gorge named Danescoombe (Dane’s cwin, British 
for Dane’s valley), said to have run red with the 
blood shed on Kingston Downs, where about A. D. 
835 King Egbert defeated a combined army of 
Danes and Cornishmen, and consolidated the power 
of the Saxon heptarchy. A place named Seven 
Stones on Kingston Down still marks the place 
where the brunt of the fight took place. I remem- 
ber as a child shuddering as I crossed the valley 
as the thought crossed my mind that the mineral 


Venning’s Directory, 1887. 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 267 

stains on the rocks might be the blood of Danes and 
Saxons, not thinking that the sunshine and rain of 
one thousand odd peaceful years would obliterate 
all such gruesome mementos of the struggle. 

From an article from the pen of Lady Ernestine 
Edgcumbe, which appeared in the Cornish Maga- 
zine for January, 1899, I obtain the following par- 
ticulars relating to this very interesting family: 

'‘Sir Piers Edgcumbe, made Knight of the Bath 
by Henry VII in 1489, and Knight Banneret at the 
battle of Spurs in 1513, by his marriage with Joan, 
daughter and heir of James Durnford of East 
Stonehouse, acquired the estates of his wife’s fam- 
ily on both sides of the Tamar; and his son. Sir 
Richard, knighted in 1537, began to build Mount 
Edgcumbe House in the first year of Queen Mary, 
1553, exactly two hundred years after the older 
residence, Cothele, came into the family on the 
marriage of William Edgcumbe with Hilaria the 
heiress. 

“The family being stanch adherents of the 
Stuarts suffered much for their loyalty. The Parlia- 
mentarians during the siege of Plymouth unsuc- 
cessfully assaulted the house. May i, 1664, and two 
summonses for its surrender are extant, one signed 


268 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


by Lord Warwick ; but it held out until May, 1645, 
after which comes a long record of sequestrations 
and imprisonments inflicted on Colonel Edgcumbe 
by Cromwell. 

‘^Among the traditions connected with the 
Church (Maker) is that of the Lady Mount Edg- 
cumbe, who was interred when in a trance; and 
being roused by the sexton trying to steal her ring, 
rose up, walked home, and survived many years.^’ 

I remember in the early sixties a young man 
from London (pronounced Laandin) was visiting in 
the neighborhood. When in my boyish enthusiasm 
I was pointing out the beauties of this quaint and 
romantic old spot, I was rather damped by the 
young Cockney’s contemptuous remark : ‘‘This is n’t 
much of a plice, Frank. Vy, I lives in a bigger 
’ouse than that.” Perhaps he did. I have no doubt 
there are “bigger” “ ’ouses” than Cothele, and more 
magnificent; but to the historian and archaeologist, 
to the lover of the romantic in nature and authentic 
history, few places in England possess greater at- 
tractions, and the present noble owner of Cothele 
can truthfully say with the inspired psalmist: “The 
lines have fallen to me in pleasant places, yea I have 
a goodly heritage.” 


SKETCH XXVI. 


That Forty Pounds. 

C ADDINGTON was horrified. At least Calling- 
ton society of every grade and every shade of social 
position and of religious and political thought had 
abundant reason for thinking that it had room and 
scope for an outburst of righteous indignation, the 
object and victim of which was that very quiet, very 
unobtrusive, very unassuming elderly Methodist 
(this made it all the worse) local preacher. Brother 
James Penriter. For had he not (shame on him 
and his Methodism!) defrauded the Callington rate- 
payers of the sum of forty pounds, neither more nor 
less? Yes, forty pounds! I well remember Brother 
Penriter as he appeared about this time, which was 
in the later sixties — a thin, spare man of about 
sixty, a widower and childless. His only son had 
died at sea while on his way to America. As a 
preacher he was not by any means a brilliant orator, 
269 


270 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


nor a perambulating elocutionist. Pulpits were so 
constructed in those days as to preclude lateral ex- 
ercise, so that emphasis had to be given by vertical 
movements, so that truths if not impressed on the 
people were at any rate often stamped on the floor 
of the pulpit. As a business man, however, he was 
respected, and went about his business in a quiet, 
methodical way without unnecessarily interfering 
with other people’s, or allowing them to interfere 
with his. 

Now, however, he was disgraced, and people 
suddenly discovered that they had known all along 
that he was a hypocrite, and never ought to have 
been trusted with public money. Brother Penriter 
held three rather important public offices in the 
town. He was assistant overseer; that is, he col- 
lected the rate for the relief of the poor. He was 
clerk and collector for the Callington Highway 
Board, and he was secretary for the gas company. 
All these offices may have brought him in the hand- 
some remuneration of five dollars a week, or in 
Callington currency fifty pounds a year. 

At certain periods it was his duty to take the 
money he had collected to Liskeard, eight miles dis- 
tant, and deposit it in the East Cornwall Bank, and 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


271 


during the years that he had the handling of the 
Callington rate-payers’ money he had always per- 
formed this duty punctually and systematically. 

Now, however, there had apparently been a de- 
parture from his usual custom, for the chairman of 
the Highway Board on making application to the 
bank had been informed that the money supposed 
to have been paid in on such a date had not been de- 
posited, and there was consequently a deficit of forty 
pounds. Mr. Penriter’s explanation of the affair was 
plausible, but not altogether satisfactory. He had 
gone over, he said, to deposit the money on a Satur- 
day when the bank was on the point of closing for 
the week. The clerk was in a hurry to close up, so 
that Mr. Penriter would not trouble him to make 
out a receipt. He remembered noticing that that 
functionary merely made a hasty scribble on a book, 
and immediately closed the offices. This sounded 
all very well; but as no receipt could be produced 
and no memorandum could be found relating to 
the transaction, it was deemed altogether too improb- 
able, and the conclusion at once arrived at was that 
Mr. Penriter had appropriated the money to his 
own use. 

Then followed the state of things I have de- 


2J2 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


scribed at the opening of this sketch. It was rathef 
curious how it affected the various classes con- 
cerned. There were four Methodist congregations 
in Callington at that time — the Wesleyan, to which 
Mr. Penriter belonged, situate at the west end of 
the town; the United Methodist Free Church on 
the Tavistock Road at the east end ; the Bible Chris- 
tian at the junction of Lower and Pipewell Streets 
on the Launceston Road; and the Primitive Meth- 
odist, just by the gas-works. In all those congre- 
gations there was a feeling of genuine sorrow and 
humiliation, for the divisions of English Methodism 
are more apparent than real. At the same time it 
must candidly be confessed that among the mem- 
bers of three of above-named chapels there was 
a secret feeling of gratification that at any rate Mr. 
Penriter did not belong to their particular society, 
while the high Anglicans regarded the affair as an 
act of lawlessness that was strictly in accordance 
with the principles of Nonconformity. But it was 
in the public-houses that the atrocious action of 
Brother Penriter met with the strongest and severest 
condemnation. At Golding’s Hotel, at the “Sun” 
and “Wellington” Inns, at the “Market House” and 
“Red Lion” (now the “Commercial Hotel”), at 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


273 


the “Bull’s Head,” the “Ring o’ Bells,” and the 
“Foresters,” and all the other “arms” and “inns” 
the matter was thoroughly discussed, exhaustively 
debated, and most satisfactorily threshed out, and 
every additional pint of beer and every extra glass 
of grog brought the infamy of Mr. Penriter’s con- 
duct into stronger relief, so that by the time Ser- 
geant Penclubbin of the Cornwall Constabulary 
made his rounds at eleven P. M., whatever disagree- 
ment there might be as to the wisdom of Mr. Glad- 
stone’s recently inaugurated retrenchment policy, 
there was perfect unanimity respecting the rascality 
of Methodists in general, and Mr. Penriter in par- 
ticular. The farmers who sat down at Golding’s 
“ordinary” every Wednesday were strong in their 
condemnation of the practice of appointing Meth- 
odist local preachers to every little responsible job 
that came to hand. 

Methodist farmers who came in every Wednes- 
day to attend the market had “that forty pounds” 
thrown in their teeth while trying to make a bar- 
gain, and on one occasion a young Christian full 
of zeal for his Master and anxiety for the welfare 
of his fellow-men, approached a man for whom he 
entertained a deep respect, and who formerly had 

18 


274 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


held a good position as a professional man, but who 
was ruining himself body and soul by excessive 
drinking, and urged him to ^‘return unto the Lord,” 
and find mercy and power to live ‘^soberly, right- 
eously, and godly in this present world.” He was 
met by the reply that with the example of Mr. Pen- 
riter before him he had no desire to change his 
present mode of living. A few years after this the 
man referred to went to his grave a physical and 
financial wreck. 

Meanwhile Mr. Penriter sold what little prop- 
erty he owned in the town, handed over forty pounds 
of the proceeds to the Highway Board, and with his 
seriously diminished exchequer left Callington, and 
having obtained employment of some kind in the 
neighborhood of Torquay, he proceeded thither to 
enter on his new work. He left the town quietly; 
there was no great farewell demonstration. He 
shook hands with a few friends who still believed 
in his integrity, and left. And strange to say, such 
is the obstinacy and perversity of human nature, he 
left with a clear conscience. 

It is surprising what an amount of argument 
and persuasion is required to convince a man that 
he is a thief and a scoundrel, when he himself is 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


275 


conscious only of honesty and integrity. Messrs. 
Eliphaz, Zophar, and Bildad tried it in Job’s time, 
and failed. Messrs. Tertullus, Felix, Festus, etc., 
tried it in Paul’s time, and met no better success. 
Messrs. Stuart, Wentworth, Sand, etc., tried it in 
Pym and Hampden’s time, and so in scores and 
hundreds of less notable cases the attempt has al- 
ways ended in dismal failure. It was so with Mr. 
Penriter. Notwithstanding the sorrow and dismay 
prevailing at the chapels, and the indignation and 
exultation at the public-houses, he went away with 
an easy conscience. 

And time passed on, as time has always been in 
the habit of doing ever since it existed, and grad- 
ually, very gradually, interest in Brother Penriter 
and his iniquities died away, except that now and 
then ‘^that forty pounds” would be mentioned cas- 
ually to a Methodist farmer in some country fair or 
rural auction sale, or some belated toper emerging 
from the ‘'Bull’s Head” at about 10.50 P. M., and 
leaning against the lamp-post at the corner (said 
lamp-post, by the by, has been the stay and support 
of many a bewildered guest of the “Bull’s Head” 
when in a state of uncertainty, as to which was 
Fore Street and which was Church Street). Some 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


276 

heavily laden imbiber, I say, would be found cling- 
ing to this valuable asset of the gas company, of 
which Mr. Penriter had been secretary, and declar- 
ing that although he could drink a “glash of grog 
now and thensh” he “wash shtraigtsh’’ in his 
“dealinsh^^ and did not “ch-ch-chait peoplesh like 
that old M-m-methody Misher P-p-p-penriter.” 

One day, however, in the early seventies public 
interest in the matter was reawakened by a new 
and unexpected development of the case, and the 
Highway Board was convened for a special session, 
as the outcome of which Mr. Penriter received a 
letter from the chairman of that body, inclosing a 
check for forty pounds, and explanation, and an 
apology. 

The explanation was briefly this: A close scru- 
tiny of the financial position of the East Cornwall 
Bank had resulted in the discovery that there was 
a sum of forty pounds lying in the bank that could 
not be accounted for. The books were overhauled, 
but no record could be found relating to such a sum ; 
still, there it was. At last, after long search, an 
old ledger turned up, and on the last page — if I 
remember rightly — on the fly-leaf, was a memoran- 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


277 

dum, evidently written in haste, which explained 
the whole matter. It was to this effect : 

, _th of , 186—. 

“Received from Callington Highway Board, per 
Mr. James Penriter, forty pounds. 

a » 

Now my readers will say, of course, that full 
compensation was made to Mr. Penriter, and that 
the whole affair terminated happily. 

In this, however, I am afraid I must disappoint 
them. True, Brother Penriter was reimbursed to the 
full amount of his loss, and for anything I know to 
the contrary, with interest; but nothing can com- 
pensate a man or a woman for even the temporary 
loss of reputation. And strange as it may read, 
although Mr. Penriter ’s character was completely 
cleared, and it was proved that he had not in the 
slightest degree deviated from the line of honesty and 
integrity, I met with people in that neighborhood fif- 
teen years after who had not heard of the way in 
which the affair had been cleared up, and who still 
believed Mr. Penriter guilty ; so long does truth take 
overtaking falsehood when the latter has once ob- 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


278 

tained a start, and it may be that there are, even 
now, those in the same position. It is also pos- 
sible that hundreds of such cruel mistakes are 
constantly occurring, and that thousands of inno- 
cent ones are suffering in a similar manner to the 
victim of that forty pounds. 


SKETCH XXVII. 

Fording the Tamar. 

“Nae man can tether time or tide; — 

The hour approaches, Tam maun ride,” 

— Burns. 

But there are no witches in my story, neither 
is there a “brig;’' had there been, my story would 
not have been written. 

“O distinctly I remember, 

It was in the bleak December.” 

Wrong again, Mr. Edgar Allan Poe, this was 
not a “bleak” December, but a remarkably clear 
and bright winter altogether. It was the winter of 
1860-61. Heavy falls of snow and sharp, clear frost 
characterized that winter. 

As already stated in these pages, the Cornish 
and Devonshire mines were active at that time, 
and South Hove, which closed down a couple of 
years later, was at that time in full work. The 
ferry at North Hove, or Hove Passage, as it is 
279 


28 o real life sketches, 

generally called, was operated at that time by my 
uncle, Mr. George Borley, and as a great number of 
the men who worked at South Hove lived in St. 
Dominic, on the Cornish side, the ferry was kept 
in a state of constant activity. “Pay-day’' at the 
mines was always a high day, and “Tat work” 
men, “owners’ count” men, “tributers,”» and all the 
others that make up the personnel of a mine would 
line up at the “count-house” door and pass in to 
receive their monthly wages, and then with a great 
many there was a “score” for drink chalked up 
behind the door of some neighboring public-house, 
which was wiped off, very frequently to the serious 
diminution of the monthly takings. It so hap- 
pened that in the winter of which I am writing the 
monthly pay-day at South Hove fell on Christmas 
eve. It was full moon that Christmas, consequently 
it was high tide at six o’clock. All through the 
early part of the day the ferryboat was kept lively, 
as party after party of men kept arriving, and “Boat 
ahoy!” was almost constantly sounding over the 
water. Each party of men, as they landed, received 
the caution: “Now be sure and get back early; we 
shall not cross any one after ten o’clock.” The cau- 
tion was necessary for the reason already stated 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


281 


that many of the men had ‘‘scores” marked against 
them at the “Cross Oars,” at Holes’ Hole, which, as 
honest men, it behooved them to see wiped off ; and 
as sociable men it behooved them to drink a pint or 
two more “for the good of the house,” to drink to 
the landlord’s health, and wish him a Merry Christ- 
mas. However, most of the men responded with a 
hearty “All right, maister ; us ’ll be here and they 
were, with exactly three exceptions, as good as their 
word, many of the men returning early and sober to 
spend the Christmas eve with their families; and 
some few to take an extra drink or two at Halton 
Quay or “Sheffel.” The three exceptions referred to 
were Messrs. Simon Penriskall, John Pol duffer, and 
Ephraim Trephuddel. If they made any promise 
at all they made it with certain “mental reservations.” 
They were bent on having a spree; and when men 
are bent on having a spree, what need is there for 
bothering about such trivial things as ferryboats? 
Besides, was it not Christmas time, and what more 
suitable way can be devised for celebrating the com- 
ing into this world of the embodiment of Divine^ wis- 
dom than by making fools of ourselves? So those 
men reasoned, that is if they reasoned on the mat- 
ter at all, which, I think, is open to serious doubt. 


282 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


However, as they were bent on a spree I think my 
readers will confess their bent was humored to the 
fullest possible extent before they got through. 

As I said, all the others kept their promise. Over 
high water the splash of oars was constant and in- 
cessant. By nine o’clock nearly all the men were 
over. Between nine and ten there were one or 
two stragglers. Sharp at ten the boat was hauled 
up to high-water mark, securely fastened with chain 
and padlock, and the paddles taken out and hidden 
away. Christmas eve passed at Hove Passage in its 
usual quiet, cheerful manner. My uncle was a man 
of free, open-handed hospitality ; he was also a strict 
temperance man, and for forty years previous to his 
death he was superintendent of the Congregational 
Sunday-school at Beeralston. So it was no un- 
usual thing for a large party of the teachers and 
senior scholars to assemble at Hove Passage on those 
occasions and spend a merry time together. 

By eleven o’clock, however, the party had broken 
up, and the members of the household had retired to 
rest. 

It may have been half an hour later that one or 
two of them, among them being one of my brothers, 
who had kept awake in the expectation of seeing 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 283 

some fun which, they shrewdly guessed, would be 
provided for them by Messrs. Penriskall and com- 
pany, who, they noticed, had not returned with the 
others, were rewarded by hearing the yardgate fall 
to with a heavy slam, and three voices, rendered 
rather unsteady by cold air and Poltappin’s beer, 
“B-b-boat ahoy ! B-b-boat ahoy ! C-c-come on, 
Varmer Burley, an’ shove us across. Baint ’ee cornin’ 
out, Varmer? All -1 r-r-right, old feller, us ’ll take 
yer old boat an’ cross ourzelves. G-g-good night, 
old boy ! Wush ’ee M-m-merry Christmas ! You 
won’t vind yer old boat in the mornin’.” 

“We won’t go ’om’ till mornin’. 

Till mornin’, till mornin’, 

We won’t go ’om’ till mornin’. 

Till daylight deth appear.” 

By this time they were at the waterside, and 
found the boat, as I have said, at high-water mark ; 
and, after expending a considerable amount of time 
and labor in the endeavor to get her off, discovered 
that she was moored to a tree. It was now near 
midnight, and bitterly cold, the tide being about 
dead low water. I may observe here that the tide 
on the Tamar rises and falls about fifteen to eighteen 
feet at springtide. At the place where our worthies 


284 SKETCHES. 

were there is a shoal, or sand-bank, where the water 
at its lowest ebb is from two and a half to three feet 
in summer to three or three and a half in winter; 
so that at low tide, unless there is a strong freshet, 
it is fordable, if you know just where the sand-bank 
is situated. The distance is about one hundred and 
fifty yards. 

“What shall us do?’’ The speaker was Polduf- 
fer. “Us can’t git this old boat otf.” 

“I daan ’t know, I ’m sure,” replied Trephuddel. 

“I-I-I be terable cowld.” 

“Strep naked en walk across,” suggested Pen- 
riskall. “Us must git ’om’ zum ’ow.” 

“Es et very deep ?” inquired Polduffer. 

“No ! Git ’om’, you fule ; can’t yu mind when old 
Mousey Penwaddel vailed overboard ? Mousey is n’t 
more ’n ’bout vour voot huy ; but he walked ashore 
all right.” 

Our three heroes then proceeded to act on Pen- 
riskall’s suggestion, when another idea occurred to 
that gentleman : “I ’ve heered,” he remarked, “that 
et isn’t safe tu go into the watter ef you ’m enny 
hotter ’n the watter es. Us ’ad better walk about a 
bit, an’ cool down.” 

This they proceeded to do, stepping into the 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 285 

water occ^isionally to see if they had arrived at the 
proper temperature. The poetry of their position 
did not occur to them; but they, in the most literal 
sense, lingered shivering on the brink. “They then 
addressed themselves to the water,” as John Bunyan 
says, and although there were no “shining ones” 
on the other side there were at any rate three bright 
ones in the river. 

“Now, chaps,” said Penriskall, who, being rather 
less intoxicated than the others, had assumed com- 
mand of the expedition, “us must keep straight vur 
farmer Jan Poldriver’s spire bank, an’ then walk 
down tu the hurd.” 

So wading, splashing, stumbling, shivering, mut- 
tering, they proceeded on their journey, a keen 
draught of frosty air direct from the Dartmoor 
hills cutting down Lockeridge Bottom and raising a 
ripple on the water and a chatter in their teeth. 

“How be ’e gittin’ on, chaps?” called out Pen- 
riskall, who was some yards in advance. 

“I Ve let vail me shert,” replied Polduffer, mak- 
ing a frantic grab for the erring and now saturated 
garment. 

“Bw-bw-bw-bw-bw-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w,” replied 
Trephuddel.* 


<‘A fact. 


286 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


iVnd now it was curious to witness the peculiar 
metamorphosis that midnight-hour produced: — De- 
cember 24th, three Cornishmen filled with ale stand- 
ing in beer; December 25th, the same three men 
somewhat sobered standing in mud, making most 
heroic efforts to array themselves in their saturated 
and rapidly stiffening garments. This was accom- 
plished, however, at last, and our heroes proceeded 
to face the remaining mile or two, ‘‘that lie between 
us an’ our home.” 

The “pub.” at Halton Quay was closed, and the 
guests at “Shiffel” had departed, and the house was 
quiet. There was literally no chance for a warming 
drink. They tried to cheer themselves by singing; 
but the strains of 

“We won’t go ’om’ till mornin’,” 

sounded more like a string of unsteady “w’s” than 
anything else. They found that 

“As I sat on a sunny bank, a sunny bank, a sunny bank. 
As I sat on a sunny bank. 

On Christmas-day in the morning,” 

did not strictly apply to their case, standing in the 
mud by “Varmer Jan Poldriver’s spire-bank.” 
They kept their spirits up, however, and sustained no 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 287 

serious injury from their adventure, which they 
themselves related with considerable gusto the fol- 
lowing day ; for it is characteristic of a Cornishman 
that he can enjoy a joke even at his own expense. 
They lived many years after this, and never tired 
of relating their experience on that memorable 
Christmas eve in i860, when they forded the Tamar. 


SKETCH XXVIII. 

“UnstabivE as Water.’' 

Brother Trerepsor was in a state of consider- 
able anxiety and worry. This was manifested by a 
frequent vigorous scratching of his head and the oc- 
casional brushing of an imaginary fly from the tip of 
his right ear. It was the meeting of Band of Hope 
Committee, of which Brother Trerepsor had been 
honorary secretary from the time of its founding 
several years previous to this meeting. The roll- 
book containing a long list of names lay open before 
him, and it was this list of names that worried him. 
Brother Trerepsor’s perplexity arose from three 
sources ; namely, the sociability of St. Dominic peo- 
ple, the palatable nature of St. Dominic cider, and 
the excellent character of Mr. Trebung’s ale. 

Every Good Friday witnessed the anniversary of 
the Band of Hope, when the sociability referred to 
was indicated by the crowd that assembled to drink 
288 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 289 

tea and eat saffron-cake in the Wesleyan school- 
room, listen to temperance addresses in the Wesleyan 
Chapel, and agreeing to abstain from all intoxicating 
liquors as a beverage, enroll their names in Mr. Tre- 
repsor’s membership book. Then came the fruit 
season and corn harvest, when the cider made the 
previous year looked refreshing. Then followed the 
time when the aroma from Trebung’s brewery indi- 
cated that he was engaged in his October brewing. 
Then it was at those thirsty seasons that pledges 
were broken, and Trerepsor’s roll-book was for a 
time forgotten. And so it came about that although 
water as an exclusive beverage did not stand in high 
repute among St. Dominic people, they have some 
resemblance to it in its proverbial instability. 

This instability of character was a great source of 
bother to Brother Trerepsor. A life-long abstainer 
himself, or, at any rate, ever since he was ten years 
old, why people should drink one month and abstain 
the next was to him incomprehensible. He could 
only compare it to the traditional farmer who, in 
order to produce alternate layers of fat and lean in 
his bacon, fed his hogs one week and starved them 
the next. 

19 


290 


REAL LIPB SKETCHES. 


Few Band of Hope secretaries took a keener in- 
terest in the well-being of their charge than he, and 
his hopeful, sanguine spirit rose with every addition 
to his membership list and suffered a corresponding 
depression at every defection from his ranks. Al- 
together those stratified teetotalers were a source 
of great personal discomfort to Brother Trerepsor. 

^‘How many names have you got on your book 
now, Mr. Trerepsor?’^ The speaker was the treas- 
urer of the society, Mr. Pencritic, a man of rather 
narrow views of life and of human nature, one of 
whose most striking characteristics was his distrust 
of his fellow-men. It was he who on one occasion 
rushed frantically into the schoolroom in a state 
of righteous indignation because some Good Tem- 
plars had dared to pollute the sanctity of the chapel 
by wearing their regalia on the rostrum during a 
temperance meeting. And on another occasion he 
protested most energetically against the president, 
Mr. Treoptimus; the vice-president, Mr. Polwakem, 
and Brother Trerepsor joining with a certain High 
Anglican clergyman, the Rev. Canon Fitzellis, in 
trying to establish a branch of the Christian En- 
deavor Temperance Society in the parish. 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


291 

^‘How many have you got on your books now, 
Mr. Trerepsor?” 

^‘There are seventy-five names altogether; but I 
am afraid there are a good many defaulters,” re- 
plied Brother Trerepsor. 

“Yes, more than half of them, I reckon,” said 
Mr. Pencritic. 

“Not quite as bad as that, I hope,” was the 
reply. “But it is sickening to see the amount of slip- 
shod carelessness in the matter of signing the pledge. 
I firmly believe, however, that most of them mean 
well enough; but the words of Bobby Burns apply 
well in this case: 

“ ‘ But O ! mankind is unco weak, 

And little to be trusted, 

If self the wavering balance shake, 

’T is rarely right adjusted.’ 

Take Harry Pengore as a typical case. Harry 
makes a point of signing the pledge immediately 
after every drunken spree, and then giving his 
'testimony’ respecting his deliverance from strong 
drink.” 

“I remember,” continued Brother Trerepsor, 
“Harry once giving me an account of his ‘conver- 


292 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


sion,’ which account, I think, affords us a good in- 
sight of his character, and I am afraid not of his 
only. These are his words, as well as I can recall 
them : 

“ T was in terable trouble, maister ; I knowed I 
was lost, an’ I was af eared I was goin’ tu hell. I 
prayed, I cried, I roared, I hollered, I ded n’t know 
what to do. Then, mun maister, I feeled so light, 
zo ’appy; I jumped up an’ signed an’ hollered again 
vur juy.’ 

“I observed that in all this there was no reference 
whatever to the grasping the plain facts of the atone- 
ment, or recognition of the work of the Holy Spirit. 
It was all excitement, depression of spirit, and 
alarm, followed by a reaction and 'hollerin’ vur joy.’ 
What wonder,” he continued, "that such 'conver- 
sions’ should be followed by such 'backsliding ?’ ” 

"However, Harry must be well stocked with blue 
ribbon and pledge-cards; that is, if he keeps all he 
carries away.” 

"Why, what is this, Mr. Trerepsor?” asked one 
of the committee, who was scanning a pile of pledge- 
cards lying on the table while Brother Trerepsor had 
been speaking, selecting one which was partly filled 
out. 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


293 


“That,” replied the secretary, “must be a card 
I was filling out for young Issacher Penshaky; but 
he changed his mind before I had time to get his 
name down.” 

A few evenings after this Brother Trerepsor was 
in preparing his next Sunday sermon — he 
was a Wesleyan local preacher — when he heard the 
sound of approaching footsteps. This was rather 
unusual after dark, as he lived in a lonely place, 
and his house was approached by a narrow, crooked 
lane. In response to a knock at the door he rose 
to receive his neighbor and friend, Mr. Pentrowel, 
who lived about three miles away and who was 
accompanied by his daughter, a young lady of fifteen 
or sixteen. Brother Trerepsor expressed his pleas- 
ure and surprise at this unexpected visit, and then 
followed some desultory conversation, during which 
Brother Trerepsor was wondering what had brought 
Mr. Pentrowel that distance on such a dark night, 
when Mr. Pentrowel opened his business with, “Mr. 
Trerepsor, I Ve come down to-night to sign the 
pledge.” 

If the visit itself was a surprise and a pleasure, 
it can easily be imagined that this announcement was 


more so. 


^94 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


“I am heartily glad to hear you say so,” said 
Brother Trerepsor. 

“Yes, Mr. Trerepsor, drink has always been a 
snare to me [Brother Trerepsor knew it] and I 
have now resolved to give it up altogether. [Brother 
Trerepsor was delighted.] I Ve tried several times, 
and failed; but I mean it this time.” 

The pledge-book was soon produced, upon which 
soon appeared the name of “Shadrach Pentrowel,” 
with Brother Trerepsor ’s signature as witness. A 
pledge-card was filled, duly signed and placed in Mr. 
Pentrowel’s pocket, and after receiving the best 
wishes of the highly gratified secretary, Mr. and 
Miss Pentrowel took their leave. 

Now the road from Mr. Trerepsor ’s residence to 
that of Mr. Pentrowel may be divided roughly into 
three one-mile sections. The first, leading by Tre- 
bung’s brewery, ended at the “Butcher’s Arms,” or 
“Shiffel,” as it was locally designated. The second 
section terminated at the “Cornish Arms,” in St. 
Dominic Village. The third, round by Radland 
Cross, led through “Longland’s Lane.” 

A light, northerly wind carried the delicious smell 
of malt and new October ale down the road to “Hun- 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


295 


ter^s Oak,” filling the soul of Mr. Pentrowel with an 
intense longing, so that when he emerged from the 
“Butcher’s Arms” he explained to his daughter that 
he had called to see Mr. Polchawbakin about the 
new pigs’ house he was talking about building. 
When Mr. Pentrowel parted with Mr. Treguzzle 
outside the “Cornish Arms” about 10.45 P* 
latter gentleman was heard to remark in a tone of 
voice that could be heard all over the village that 
“taytotallin’ ish all very wellsh vur vokes that can’t 
guide theirshelvsh ; but shober, shtiddy men like me 
an’ Mishter Pentrowel sh daan’t want no shuch non- 
senshensh, an’ Mishter Fetzelles, an’ old Pencritic, 
an’ Treoptimus, an’ Trerepsorsh ish all a pack of 
foolsh an’ furnatics wi’ their temperansh shoshietiesh, 
an’ Band of Hopesh, an’ all sich traade.” An early 
traveler the next morning might have noticed a series 
of zig-zag footprints all along Longland’s Lane and 
come to the conclusion that a wayfarer of the pre- 
vious night, being a payer of way-rate, had most 
conscientiously used as much of the road as possible 
on his homeward journey. The truth of the matter 
was that Mr. Pentrowel had got home drunk with 
a temperance pledge card in his pocket. 


REAL LIPB SKETCHES. 


296 

There is a sequel to this story : 

"‘For the grace of God hath appeared, bringing 
salvation unto all men, instructing us to the intent 
that, denying ungodliness and worldly lusts, we 
should live soberly, righteously, and godly in this 
present world : looking for the blessed hope and ap- 
pearing of the glory of our great God and Savior, 
Jesus Christ; who gave himself for us, that he 
might redeem us from all iniquity, and purify unto 
himself a people for his own possession, zealous of 
good works/^ (Titus ii, ii. Rev. Ver.) 

This “grace’' was accepted by Mr. Pentrowel 
and “was not in vain armed by it, and renewed by 
its influence, he became a new man, and for many 
years previous to the last time I saw him had lived 
a sober, consistent Christian life. 


SKETCH XXIX. 

Symphytum Aspe:rrimum in Three: Chapters. 

CHAPTER I. 

It was a bright, warm morning in the early fall 
of 1 88 — , Brother Trerepsor was standing on one of 
those stretches of rich alluvium which fringe the 
Tamar, and which have by dyking and draining been 
brought into a state of high cultivation. His coat 
and vest hung on the fence ; his hat and mattock lay 
on the ground at his feet ; his sleeves were rolled to 
the elbow, displaying a pair of wiry sun-bumt arms. 
The sun shining on his heavy beard gave it a more 
than ordinary fiery tinge. With both hands he was 
vigorously scratching his head where his dark hair 
stood erect in a most defiant attitude. He was evi- 
dently in much the same condition of mind as when 
we last saw him at the Band of Hope Committee 
meeting; that is, he was bothered. He was aroused 
by a cheery, hearty voice behind him : ‘‘Good morn- 
297 


298 rbal life sketches. 

ing! How are you, Mr. Trerepsor?’’ He turned 
to greet his neighbor, Mr. Penharrow, who lived on 
the adjoining farm, and simply replied, “Bothered.” 

“Why, what’s the matter, Mr. Trerepsor?” 

“That,” he replied, pointing at the same time to a 
mass of dark green foliage surmounted by rich look- 
ing purple flowers, strong looking plants four feet 
high, with long, slightly serrated leaves, many of 
which lay wilting in the early morning sun, their 
stems exuding a thick oily sap, and their long black 
brittle roots, which had penetrated the soil to a 
depth of two feet or more, looked as though deter- 
mined to start and grow again at the first oppor- 
tunity. “That, Mr. Penharrow ! That is the 
matter.” 

“Why, what is that, Mr. Trerepsor? I ’ve noticed 
that queer-looking stuff growing in your meadow 
for some time, and wondered what it was. Where 
on earth did it come from? How did you get it? 
and what is it good for?” 

“That plant, Mr. Penharrow, is what botanists 
are pleased to call ‘Symphytum Asperrimum,’ 
nurserymen call ‘Prickly Comfrey,’ a perpetual 
fodder plant; but what I call a perpetual and un- 
mitigated nuisance. As to where it came from, I 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


299 


believe some English travelers found it growing 
somewhere in the southern steppes of Russia, and 
the greatest blunder the Russian Government ever 
committed was that they did not send those fellows 
to Siberia, instead of allowing them to bring such 
rubbish out of the country. Then a nurseryman up 
in one of the midland counties, a fellow named Rab- 
shakeh Trefulem, got hold of it, and advertised it in 
the 'Mossback’s Manual’ as a wonderful fodder 
plant, growing an incredible number of tons to the 
acre, and that cows, horses, and pigs would eat it 
with avidity. So I sent and ordered one thousand 
plants at ten shillings a thousand, and now I should 
think I have at least fifty thousand of them?” 

“But won’t the cattle eat it, Mr. Trerepsor?” 

“No, Mr. Penharrow, neither with avidity nor 
anything else. You might as well offer that old 
cow a copy of last year’s Moore’s Almanac or a 
Bradshaw’s Railway Guide, and you know that ’s 
rather dry eating. They all abstain from it as rigor- 
ously as a Jew from pork, or a Good Templar from 
gin. It is no good whatever, and now my aim and 
object in life is to get rid of it, if possible.” 

“Well, I wish you joy with it,” said Mr. Pen- 
harrow, as he bade his friend “Good-morning,” and 


300 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


Brother Trerepsor, after giving his head another 
vigorous scratching resumed his hat and mattock, 
and turned to his apparently hopeless task. 

It might have been an hour or two later that he 
was interrupted by another gruff, hearty voice be- 
hind him: “Ullo, varmer, what hev’ ’ee got yar? 
W'y, that ’s the zame zort of traade that Varmer 
Poldriver ’th got down tu es plaace.” 

Brother Trerepsor paused in his work, and turn- 
ing recognized the speaker as John Pensturdy, a tall, 
strong-limbed, honest-faced Cornishman. ''Hullo! 
Good morning, John. What have I got here? Why 
a nuisance, John, a nuisance out and out. It ’s a 
plant called prickly comfrey. I Ve been trying to 
feed my cows with it, and now I am trying to get it 
off my ground if such a thing is possible. I ’m get- 
ting doubtful about it, however. But did I hear you 
say that Mr. Poldriver has it on his place? How in 
the world did bt get it?” 

"Well, Maister,” replied John, "you know he 'th 
got a catch pit our traade that drifts down the river, 
and when he clained en out laast vail en draaed the 
stuff up ovvur es fields, this yur comfrey, or what 
you call et, must 'ev bin in it 'cause now his ground 
es vull ov et.” 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


301 


Then Mr. Trerepsor remembered how that some 
time previously he had collected a number of the 
roots, and hoping he had finally and forever got rid 
of them he had thrown them over the embankment 
into the river, and now it appears that the said roots, 
instead of drifting out into Plymouth Sound, had 
found their way into Farmer Poldriver’s catch pit, 
so that his fields were 'Vull of it.’’ 

'‘And so,” thought Trerepsor when Pensturdy 
had walked on, "the old adage is true — 

“ Evil is wrought for want of thought 
As well as want of heart.” 

The evil things we do, the careless things we 
say, and even the wicked things we think drift into 
other people’s moral natures and bring forth fruit, 
some thirty, some sixty, and some a hundred fold, 
and even with the very best intentions we do wrong 
through sheer clumsiness, so that we have to pray, 
"God, be merciful to me a fool,^ as often as "me a 
sinner.” 

When the following Sunday Brother Trerepsor 
preached at Callington, and was invited to address 
the Sunday-school he chose for his subject Hebrews 
xii, 14, and spoke most feelingly about roots of 
bitterness, and warned his hearers against prickly 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


Zoz 

comfrey and any other form of evil that might pre- 
sent itself. 


CHAPTER II. 

A clear, cool morning, it was the last day in 
October, 189 — , — I am particular as to the date — 
Brother Trerepsor was standing beside one of the 
two wagons which were to convey his family and 
baggage on the first stage of the long six-thousand- 
mile journey that lay before him, his destination 
being the western seaboard of the Dominion of 
Canada. He was shaking hands with the few friends 
who had gathered at that early morning hour to bid 
him farewell. He was deeply affected, as was natu- 
ral under the circumstances ; but those present 
noticed a certain buoyancy in his demeanor, which 
was explained by his parting words. He said: “I 
naturally feel this separation keenly, this leaving the 
place of my birth, and where my youth and early 
manhood have been spent, and especially leaving the 
friends whom I have known and loved for a life- 
time; but, after all, I feel a considerable amount of 
satisfaction in the thought that I am placing at least 
six thousand miles between myself and the prickly 
comfrey.’’ 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


303 

How much he was mistaken will be seen in the 
next chapter. 


CHAPTER III. 

An intensely hot morning about the middle of 
July, 189 — , a solitary traveler is toiling along the 
old Cariboo telegraph trail in Southern British Co- 
lumbia. He is some miles southwest of the old 
Hudson’s Bay trading post of Fort Langley. In 
this traveler we recognize our old friend, Brother 
Trerepsor. He is changed but slightly since we last 
saw him digging up prickly comfrey roots and bid- 
ding farewell to his friends in St. Dominic. He 
is slightly lame, partly as the result of that last attack 
of rheumatic fever some years before he left Eng- 
land, which digging ditches and laying track on the 
Canadian Pacific Railway has not tended to lessen. 
There are white threads here and there in that fiery 
beard, but his thick mat of dark hair still maintains 
its defiant and, as Mark Guy Pearse would say, 
^'most unmethodistic” attitude. His long rapid 
strides do not seem to indicate that his load of camp 
traps and provisions, weighing some sixty or seventy 
pounds, bothers him seriously, while his general 
bearing does not indicate depression of spirits, as 


304 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


the bears and cougars hiding in the dense thickets 
could testify to this day how that on that particular 
morning their serious meditations were disturbed by 
alternate stanzas of Wesley’s and Sankey’s hymns, 
varied occasionally by 

“Like a fine old English gentleman,” 
and the refrain: 

“ From Scotland’s lofty mountains, 

From Erin’s lovely vales, 

O, let the prayer re-echo, 

God bless the Prince of Wales,” 

roared from a chest that evidently contained a sound 
pair of lungs. Our friend is drenched with per- 
spiration as in the dense hush the air is close and 
heavy, and in the few open spaces the sun is pouring 
its rays down most mercilessly. He is admiring as 
he passes the magnificent growth of the timber, 
where the Douglas fir and maple on the uplands 
is varied by the tamarack, the spruce, and the cot- 
ton wood on the lower ground. He is also critically 
examining the nature of the soil, much of which does 
not excite his admiration. He stops about noon at 
a farmhouse, and is most hospitably entertained by 
the owner, a tall gentlemanly Englishman, and his 
lady-like wife, a native of Ontario. An hour spent 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES, 


305 


in agreeable conversation and English reminis- 
cences, and Brother Trerepsor resumes his journey. 
Passing through the yard he sees an object which 
fills him with consternation, for there beside the 
bam, in all its luxuriance of long serrated leaves and 
purple flowers, is the terrible symphytum asperri- 
mum, the redoubtable prickly comfrey. He shakes 
his fist, exclaiming as he does so, “Hast thou found 
me, O mine enemy?” Whether the plant had pre- 
ceded or followed him to British Columbia, Brother 
Trerepsor never knew. 


20 


SKETCH XXX. 


“The Barren Fig-tree/" 

There lie before me while I write two “plans"" 
of the Callington Wesleyan Circuit. The first is 
dated August, September, October, 1865, and con- 
tains the following particulars: Chapels and other 
preaching places, 25; ordained ministers, 2; local 
preachers on “full plan,"" 34; trial,"" 6; from 
other circuits, 13 ; being a total of 53 local preachers. 
The second plan is dated November, December, 
January, 1898-9, and shows: Chapels, 24; ordained 
ministers, 2; local preachers on “full plan,"" 55; on 
trial, 5 ; “exhorters,"" i ; “auxiliaries,"" i ; from other 
circuits, 1 1 ; making a total of 73, an increase of 20 
local preachers in thirty-three years. Those figures 
are significant, showing as they do that while in 
many parts of Canada and the United States the 
local preachers are being slighted, and seldom if 
ever allowed to engage in their vocation, in Eng- 
land, the cradle and stronghold of Methodism, they 
306 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


307 


are steadily increasing in numbers and efficiency, 
and in support of the latter statement the latest re- 
ports I have had from the above circuit show an in- 
crease for the year 1900 of one hundred and forty 
new members, with between five hundred and six 
hundred guineas contributed to the Twentieth-cen- 
tury Fund. 

I see there are seven names on the latter plan 
which stand on the former. The middle-aged men 
of sixty-five are the aged ones of ninety-nine, and 
the young men of the former date are now past 
middle age, while among those who now ‘Test from 
their labors” occurs the name of Brother Trehomily. 
An elderly man in 1865, it is now more than twenty- 
five years since he was laid to rest in the same burial 
ground that contains the dust of Theodoro Palae- 
ologus of the “imperyall lyne of y^ Greekes.” And 
here I must proceed to my story : 

It was a pitchy dark evening in the fall of 186 — . 
Two travelers were literally feeling their way along 
the narrow footpath that leads through “Henny- 
clay” woods, whose precipitous slopes rise some one 
hundred and fifty or two hundred feet above the 
Tamar. The elder of the two men was a Scotch- 
man named Napier, a man somewhat past middle 


3o8 RBAL lifb skbtchbs, 

age. The younger man was a Cornishman, named 
Trerepsor, who was never more in his element than 
when he was mystifying somebody by some original 
piece of drollery. Across the river, and distant about 
a mile and a half, a light twinkled in the window of 
a farmhouse on the Cornish side, and which was 
half-hidden by a clump of elm-trees. It was on this 
light the young man looked earnestly, while he 
stopped and appeared to be engaged in deep medita- 
tion or in solving some abstruse problem. 

“Come on, Louis,'’ rather impatiently exclaimed 
the elder man, “what are ye starin’ at?” 

“You see that light, sir?” was the reply. 

“Aye, I see a light ; what of it, mon ?” 

“Mr. Trehomily lives there, sir, and I see by the 
‘plan’ he is appointed to preach at St. Dominic to- 
morrow, and I observe,” he added, slowly, “that he 
is now engaged in preparing one of his sermons; 
but I can not see at this distance whether the sermon 
on his hands now is intended for the afternoon or 
evening. I know, however, what the subject 
will be.” 

“Hoot awa’, mon!” exclaimed his companion, 
“are ye daft?” 


REAL UPB SKETCHES. 


309 

‘'No, sir,'' was the reply, “I speak forth words 
of truth and soberness. Mr. Trehomily is now pre- 
paring one of his sermons, and the subject is ‘The 
Barren Fig-tree.' " 

“Come on! Come on, mon!" exclaimed Mr. 
Napier. “There 's something uncanny aboot ye, or 
aboot this place or something. Let 's get back to 
Cornwall. I 'm feelin' gey fasht here. But hoo dae 
ye ken, mon," he added, “that yon mon will hae the 
‘Barren Fig-tree' for his text to-morrow?" 

“That, sir, is a secret," was the reply. “But if 
you attend the service at the Methodist chapel to- 
morrow you may take my word for it, that is what 
you will hear." 

Now Mr. Napier was a rigid “auld licht" Pres- 
byterian, with very little sympathy with Methodists 
or any other of the Arminian denominations, his 
usual place of worship being the Baptist church at 
Calstock. However, on this particular Sunday, im- 
pelled partly by curiosity to see whether young Tre- 
repsor's prediction would be verified or not, he took 
his place in the old Methodist chapel mentioned in 
former sketches. 

Very soon the clatter of horses' hoofs was heard 


310 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


outside, and Brother Trehomily entered, — a gray- 
haired, serious-looking man of about sixty or sixty- 
five, attired in a black frock coat with a silk hat and 
a white cotton tie. A very neat, very precise, very 
serious man at all times was Mr. Trehomily, a true 
type of the farmer-preacher of that period. 

The hymn was given out and sung two lines at 
a time, the singing being led by my dear old friend 
and Sunday-school teacher, the late Mr. George 
Martin. Then the prayer. How I remember those 
prayers, simple, earnest, to the point — sometimes 
it is true, drawn out to an inconvenient length; but 
this, not the result of ostentation or affectation, but 
the downright earnestness of the man would some- 
times cause him to forget himself. Then the lesson, 
read sometimes without much regard to punctuation. 
Still those sacred truths were read and read impress- 
ively. They were gospel, and that was about all 
the congregation cared about. 

There was a look of inexpressible comicality on 
the face of the young Cornishman when the preacher 
announced his text, Mark xi, 13, and an equally in- 
describable one of perplexity on that of the Scotch- 
man. Then followed the sermon, wherein the bar- 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


311 

renness of Judean fig-trees and St. Dominic Chris- 
tians was expatiated on at considerable length. 
Another hymn and prayer, and the simple, hearty 
service was over. 

“Louis, mon,’’ exclaimed the Scotchman as soon 
as they emerged from the building. “Hoo did ye 
ken yon parson wad gie us the story o* the ‘Barren 
Fig-tree’ the day ?” 

Trerepsor gravely shook his head. “I knew what 
he was studying, Mr. Napier,” was the simple and 
rather guarded reply. 

After all, the explanation was easy. Brother Tre- 
homily always preached about the barren fig-tree 
when he came to St. Dominic. Why, he never ex- 
plained. Whether it was that St. Dominic was the 
center of a considerable fruit-growing district, and 
that the people would on that account be in sym- 
pathy with him and his subject, or whether in the 
rush of his business he forgot from time to time 
what he had preached from last, was never known 
with any certainty. But I remember that when a 
lady, Mrs. Penserious, ventured to suggest on one 
occasion that he might with advantage to St. Dom- 
inic people change his subject occasionally, and 


312 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


give them something better than barren fig-trees, he 
promised to reform. But although he sometimes 
chose another text, I often heard him alluding to 
his old subject in a way that conveyed the idea that 
that tree was as deeply rooted in his affections as 
the prickly comfrey was years afterwards in Brother 
Trerepsor’s meadow. 


SKETCH XXXI. 

BilIvY Bray. 

Why Beeralston people were so intensely loyal 
to the house of Stuart as to keep on celebrating May 
29th (Restoration-day) so long after the practice 
had dropped into disuse in other parts of England 
I never clearly understood; but so it was, and what 
Independence-day is to Americans and Domin- 
ion-day is to Canadians, so was in a small way 
Restoration-day to the Beeralstonians, although I 
am inclined to believe that there were other ^‘houses” 
that did not allow the House of Stuart to monop- 
olize their affections, for it was always observed that 
Mr. Treswillington of the ^'Cornish Arms,’' Mr. Pol- 
stuffem of the “Victoria,” and Mr. Penkaskead of 
the “Edgcumbe” wore a remarkably amiable ex- 
pression on their countenances for several days after. 

I remember as a small boy watching the parties 
of men with hands and clothing stained with oak- 
313 


3^4 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


bark, for the “rinding season” is at its height on that 
date, twining oak boughs into the arches where Frog 
Street and Bedford Street join Fore Street, and 
where Pepper Street turns down at a right angle 
where in early days the great oak-tree stood which 
served the purpose of a town hall. I remember the 
Beeralston brass band playing lively airs on the bal- 
cony of the “Victoria,” while the “Philanthropic” 
club men were regaling themselves with a sumptu- 
ous dinner after their march around the village. I 
remember the cheery-faced old ladies behind the 
“sweetstuff” stalls along the streets ; and wondering 
as I passed the “Cornish Arms” how Mr. Treswil- 
lington, who seemed to be such a quiet, self-com- 
placent individual on other occasions could stand so 
much noise and racket on the: 29th of May. 

The winter of 1866-7 witnessed a great revival 
of religion in the town and neighborhood in which 
the members of all the Churches shared. The work 
continued well up into the spring, and deep and last- 
ing results followed which bore fruit afterward in 
lands far distant from Beeralston. One of the lead- 
ers in this work was the Rev. William Hill, to whom 
I have already alluded in these pages. He was a 
man of deep, intense, earnest piety. He may not 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


315 


have been what is regarded as a brilliant orator ; but 
I can testify to this fact, that his sermons and lec- 
tures made a deeper impression on my youthful 
nature than any preacher I had heard up to that 
time. 

In the spring of 1867 the members of the Meth- 
odist and Congregational Churches met together, 
and decided that an attempt should be made to alter 
in some degree the character of the 29th of May. 
It was thereupon agreed that an open air '‘tea,” pro- 
vided at a moderate cost, should be held in a field 
near the village, to be followed by a public meeting 
addressed by ministers and laymen of the various 
denominations interested. I may add here that dur- 
ing the thirty-five years those meetings have been 
kept up, and have never lost their interest and have 
been productive of much good. I distinctly remem- 
ber that first meeting — the busy crowds around the 
tea-tables, the enormous quantities of saffron-cake 
(that luxury so dearly beloved by all Devon and 
Cornish epicures) we consumed, the tea and 
Devonshire cream, unequaled in all the world, ex- 
cept in Cornwall, the lively chat around the tea- 
tables while the sun was gradually sinking behind 
the Cornish hills, throwing a parting gleam into the 


3i6 real life sketches. 

windows of Pentillic Castle, throwing the resting- 
place of Sir James Tillie on Mount Ararat into 
deeper shadow, and tracing in faint and fainter out- 
lines the boundaries of the fields westward as far as 
Quethiock and northward to Kingston Downs, with 
the lovely old Tamar winding like a broad blue rib- 
bon between the two counties, reach after reach 
being visible from Kelly Rock to Saltash Bridge 
until it ended its course in Plymouth Sound. I 
know my readers will excuse me if, while writing 
this in the forests of British Columbia, I find myself 
wondering whether there is in the whole world a 
scene so peaceful and exquisitely lovely. But the 
“tea” was over at last, and an empty corn wagon 
was drawn out into the middle of the field, and on it 
were mounted the speakers. They included the 
Methodist circuit ministers : the Rev. Mr. Shaddock, 
Baptist minister of Calstock; and the Rev. W. Hill, 
who opened the meeting with an eloquent and stir- 
ring address, in which he recapitulated the principal 
events of the reign of King Charles II (whom he 
emphatically designated as “that profligate”) ex- 
plaining the nature and working of the measures 
passed for the stamping out of Nonconformity, and 


RUAL LIFE SKBTCHBS, 


317 


dwelling especially on the “Act of Uniformity/' 
the “Conventicle," and the “Five Mile" acts. 

I remember being highly amused at the conduct 
of two old ladies who were standing close to the 
wagon while Mr. Hill was denouncing in strong and 
forcible language the tyranny and oppression of the 
government of that bygone age, and repudiating the 
idea of our celebrating the 29th of May as a mark 
of respect to the memory of such an unworthy ob- 
ject as Charles Stuart. Those ladies kept shouting 
“Amen!" ^‘Hallelujah I" “Oh-h-h-h!" “Bless the 
Lord!" and so on. Dear old souls, they knew the 
speaker was in earnest, but they had but the faintest 
idea of the import of his words. As Mr. Hill con- 
cluded his address there was a slight movement on 
the outskirts of the crowd, with encouraging and 
cheery shouts as though an unusually hearty wel- 
come was being extended to some one. The crowd 
parted, and in response to “Come on, Billy," there 
advanced to the wagon a little man of something 
over seventy. He was attired in a black, rather 
rusty frock coat, which reached nearly to his heels. 
He wore an extremely high silk hat, which was 
rather shaggy and weather-stained; while his neck 


3i8 RBAL life sketches. 

was incased in a white cotton neck handkerchief of 
the kind worn at that time. His dress, though 
somewhat the worse for wear, was spotlessly clean, 
and his whole appearance was the embodiment of 
neatness. He had a peculiarly happy expression of 
countenance, which conveyed the impression that it 
required a constant effort to keep the intensity of his 
feelings from bursting their bounds. Passing close 
to where I was standing, he placed himself between 
the shafts of the wagon, exclaiming, ‘‘My dear 
friends, I Ve got something I want tu say tu 'ee.'' 

“Up here, Billy, up here,'' and the speaker was at 
once assisted on to the wagon in full view of the 
people, who awaited the resumption of his address 
with an interest which showed how intensely popu- 
lar the speaker was. 

Pausing a moment to gain his breath, “Billy" 
went on : 

“My friends, we are not like the Rumman Cath- 
olacks, 'cause when they want ennything they 've 
got tu go tu a priest, an' then the priest he 'ave tu 
go tu the bushup, an’ the bushup 'e 'ave tu go tu 
the caardinal, an' the caardinal 'ave got tu go tu tha 
poap ; an' tha poap 'e 'ave got tu go tu Saint Pittur ; 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


319 


an’ Saint Pittur ’ave tu go tu the Virgin Maary, an’ 
the Virgin Maary she ’ave to go tu Christ en pray 
tu he vor ’ee. Naow, my dear friends, be the time 
Saint Pittur ’ave bin tu tha Virgin Maary an’ ’ad a 
bit of crib [lunch], tha poap ’ave bin tu Saint Pittur, 
tha caardinal ’ave bin tu tha poap, tha bushup ’ave 
bin tu tha caardinal, an’ tha priest ’ave bin tu tha 
bushup, et ’s a turmenjus long time avore yu git what 
you ’re axin’ vor. But, Glory to God !” shouted the 
little man, “it ’s our privileege tu go direct tu God 
through Jesus Christ an’ git the blessin’ vor our- 
selves !” and with that the speaker clapped his hands 
in an ecstasy of joy, and danced around on the 
wagon in a way that indicated that getting the 
“blessin’ ” v/as a daily and hourly occurrence with 
him. And such indeed was the case. One of Billy 
Bray’s favorite hymns was : 

“And this I shall prove 
When with joy I remove 
To the heaven of heavens 
In Jesus’ love.” 

And this removal took place a little over a year 
from the time I saw and heard him at Beeralston. 
Billy Bray died in the month of June, 1868, pre- 


320 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


ceded and followed to the “heaven of heavens” by 
hundreds who had been brought to a knowledge and 
experience of the truth by his preaching and the 
record of his life and death. 

“By faith Enoch was translated, that he should 
not see death; and he was not found, because God 
translated him, for before his translation he hath 
had witness borne to him that he had been well 
pleasing unto God.” 


SKETCH XXXII. 


“Jan"" Jame:s and “Joanner."" 

“Here; comes the praicher! How are "ee, my 
dear? You "m the praicher baint "ee?"" The voice 
proceeded from the depths of an immense coal scut- 
tle bonnet, and the next moment the “praicher,"" a 
tall, wiry youth just out of his teens, was bending 
from his saddle and shaking hands heartily with the 
wearer of the bonnet. 

“Why, this is Mrs. James?"" 

“No ! I baint called Mistis James, I "m called 
Joanner, and this,"" pointing to her husband, “is 
Jan."" 

I well remember that evening. It was a calm, 
bright Sunday evening early in the month of Sep- 
tember, 1872. About six weeks previous to this my 
first “plan"" had been brought to me while lying in 
my bed slowly recovering from an attack of inflam- 
mation of the lungs. I had taken occasional services 
during the previous winter and spring; but on that 
day I was taking my first regular “appointment."" 
321 


21 


322 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


I had taken the service at Frogwell in the after- 
noon, and after a cup of tea in the cottage adjoining 
the chapel had ridden over to Golberdon for the 
evening service, taking the road around by Tre- 
vigro and Penwarn and over Golberdon Common. 
It was while descending the hill toward the village 
that I sighted “Joanner’’ among the small crowd 
standing by the down gate, and received the greet- 
ing I have recorded. 

How vividly the congregation of that evening 
comes back to me while I write — faces rendered so 
familiar to me in after years ; kindly faces ; faces of 
men and women devoutly in earnest, full of sym- 
pathy with and appreciation of the young preacher 
who is making his first public appearance among 
them. What young man would not feel encouraged 
by preaching to such a congregation as that at Gol- 
berdon ? They were all there that night — the 
Daveys, the Bunts, the Kellys, the Shovels, the 
Rogerses, and my near relatives, the Rickards. If 
I found myself getting nervous and hesitating for a 
word, I met an encouraging smile from my cousin, 
Mrs. Rickard, while from the third seat down from 
the pulpit I heard a deep-drawn sigh and a “Bless 
the Lord!’^ from Jan, and caught a glimpse of the 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


323 


bright, cheery face of under the coal- 

scuttle bonnet, and, like the apostle, “thanked God 
and took courage.” 

“I think he ’th a den purty well vur a young 
man, daan't you?” I heard Jan remark as I de- 
scended from the rostrum.” Then grasping my 
hand in his aged, trembling hand, he exclaimed : 

“Jesus confirm my heart’s desire, 

To work and think and speak for thee, 

Still let me guard the holy fire. 

And still stir up thy gift in me.” 

How frequently while writing those personal 
reminiscences have the words of Aliss Havergaks 
poem, quoted at the commencement of this work, 
come back to me, and I think I may be pardoned 
for quoting them again while bringing it to a close : 

“ O the hidden leaves of life ! 

Closely folded in the heart; 

Leaves where memory’s golden finger 
Slowly pointing loves to linger; 

Leaves that bid the old tears start. 

Leaves which grave experience ponders, 
Soundings for her pilot charts ; 

Leaves which God himself is storing, 

Records which we read adoring 
Him who writes on human hearts 
All our own, our treasured secrets, 
Indestructible archives 
None can copy, none can steal them, 

Death itself shall not reveal them. 

Sacred manuscripts of lives.” 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


32^ 

Jan was an old man when I first made his ac- 
quaintance in the later fifties ; in fact, I find it rather 
difficult to believe he was ever young ; but I suppose 
he must have been some time. Jan was a small 
boy when France was in the throes of the first Revo- 
lution. As a young man he heard the account of 
the Battle of Waterloo read out of the newspaper 
by some neighboring farmer. He was getting to be 
a staid, middle-aged man when our late queen as- 
cended the throne. And he must have been nearly 
seventy when I first heard his earnest, quaver- 
ing voice sounding through the old chapel at St. 
Dominic. 

Jan was a shoemaker, and it was a familiar 
sound to Golberdon people to hear the thump, thump, 
thump of his hammer pounding away at his “lap- 
stone,” the sound being frequently emphasized by 
such pious ejaculations as “Glory to God!” as some 
special view of the Divine goodness came before his 
pious, simple mind. There were those who declared 
they had sometimes heard Jan exclaim, “Glory to 
the lapstone!” If this were really the case, I sup- 
pose our learned friends would declare it was merely 
a “lapstone linguae.” 

As a local preacher Jan was neither a “huy 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


325 


learned man,” as they say in Cornwall, nor a ^Verree 
clevah elocutionist,” as I once heard a preacher de- 
scribed. He used to speak to the point, however, 
and some of his illustrations, if homely, were cer- 
tainly original and sometimes forcible. 

“My dear friends,” he used to declare, “you 
might jest as well try tu ball down South Hill tower 
wi’ apple dumplins es tu try tu ball religion out ov 
my heart.” I remember when very young hearing 
one of Jan’s sermons, in which occurred the fol- 
lowing stirring passage : “My dear friends, I ’ve 
heeard tell that out in Ja-pan there ’s a girt huy 
mountain, an’ the Ja-pans won’t allow nobody tu go 
tu the top o’n. Howsomever wan time zum Euro- 
pean travelers got liberty tu go up, and when they got 
tu the top they vound a girt crevice dree quarters 
ov a mile long, the breadth thereof I forget. In this 
yur crevice, my dear friends, the vire was rollin’ an’ 
tumblin’ about like the waves ov our say. Now, 
my dear friends, try tu think what et must be tu be 
in a place like that !” Of course, none of his audi- 
ence cared to entertain the thought for any length 
of time. 

“My dear friends !” he would declare, “the miner 
under ground when he vind’th a bit ov ore he keep’th 


326 real life sketches . 

on shovlin’ an’ shovlin’ an’ shovlin’ until he vind’th 
more. An’ zo by us, my dear friends, us must n’t 
be contented wi’ a leetle religion ; but us must be like 
the miner, us must shovley an’ shovley an’ shovley 
till us vind all the religion us ken git.” 

In those days a curious custom prevailed in that 
part of England of punishing disturbers of religious 
services by compelling them to stand outside the 
church or chapel door on a Sunday evening, and dis- 
tribute loaves of bread among the bystanders at his, 
the culprit’s, expense, of course, the quantity vary- 
ing from ten to twenty six-penny loaves, according 
to the gravity of the offense. 

It is said that on one occasion while Brother 
James was preaching at Golberdon he made the fol- 
lowing remark: “My dear friends, supposin’ yu 
tooked a leetle burd an’ tied a stone tu es legs an’ 
drowed en out ovvur Henny Dumble’s rivour. W’y 
that leetle burd cudden fly. He ’d zink tu the bottom 
ov the bottomless pit.” At this point the preacher 
was interrupted. “Git horn’, yu fule. How kin there 
be a bottom tu the bottomless pit?” The speaker 
was Mr. Solomon Pengakem, Professor of Logic at 
the Golberdon Inn. The following Sunday morn- 
ing when Mr. Pengakem was acting the part of a 


REAL LIFE SKETCHES. 


327 


rather unwilling public benefactor by distributing 
loaves of bread outside the church door at South 
Hill, that gentleman made strong resolve to the 
effect that whatever errors of logic or theology 
Brother James might make in future, he would never 
allow his zeal to so far overcome his discretion as 
to correct him in public. 

I see by a ^'plan’^ dated 1873 that Brother James’s 
name is still there, but he has no appointments. It 
must have been a year or two after this that he died, 
strong in the faith that neither the subtleties of men 
nor the temptations of Satan could “ball down,” and 
a couple of years later the loving, faithful spirit of 
dear old “Joanner” went to join him in the world 
beyond. For many years previous to their death 
they had been supported by that excellent institution, 
the Local Preachers’ Mutual Aid Association, which 
includes among its honorary members many laymen 
of wealth and high standing in society, and which 
has saved many an aged local preacher from being 
dependent on charity. 

Is it too much to hope that when life’s journey 
ends, among the many friends who have gone up 
from Golberdon and other places I shall be recog- 
nized and welcomed by ^'Jan James and Joannerf* 








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